


Hare and Hounds

by Bill the Pony (TAFKAB)



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Choose Your Own Adventure, F/M, First Time, Give the finished ones a try!, M/M, Multi, Only one of the choose your own threads is unfinished, and it's labeled, coming of age ritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 04:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 40,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10455090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/Bill%20the%20Pony
Summary: Frodo participates in an Overlithe coming of age ritual. Choose-your-own-adventure: after the first chapter, each chapter contains different pairings. Pick your pairing by picking your chapter!    (An old story)





	1. Introduction (applies to all threads)

For the duration of Overlithe in Hobbiton, class distinctions were all but forgotten-- originally by insistence of Bilbo Baggins, who loved a fine party and occasionally preferred to enjoy more rustic pleasures than he found at gatherings of his relations. He liked to share an occasional apple brandy or good malt beer with Gaffer Gamgee, for instance, who was always pleased to oblige him with the latest local gossip. 

Frodo Baggins proved no exception to his uncle's custom; after his arrival on the Hill he took up Old Bilbo's ways and enjoyed many a lively dance on the green with the local maids during each summer's festivities. Even after Bilbo's departure and his own coming of age, Frodo failed to grow respectably sober, remaining as merry as a lad just out of his tweens and preferring a dance to sitting at ease with a mug. 

Still, the neighborhood, assembled in the Party Field according to custom, was shocked to discover that in the summer of his forty-fifth year Frodo Baggins planned to take part in the annual Hare and Hounds. It was a tradition of sorts, held to quicken the crops, and had been run every year at Overlithe for time out of mind. It was even more surprising when Mr. Frodo had announced his intent to run, for usually lads were the hounds and lasses the hares. 

Only a few times in the Gaffer's long memory had the order of things been turned on its ear, and never for the likes of Baggins blood. It wasn't proper, and some said it stunted the crops rather than blessing them when one lad chased another, as might well happen with Mr. Frodo in the running. 

"That'll be the Brandybuck in him," Gaffer Gamgee shook his hoary head in dismay, peering down into the dregs in his mug as though they held the answer to the mystery of Mr. Frodo's queer doings. "Not that I'm convinced they do aught of this sort in Buckland, though they have their foreign ways, and no mistake-- living right against the Old Forest and fooling about in boats as they do." He gave a cautious look about, not liking to speak up against any Baggins who lived under Hill, and lowered his voice for Old Noakes's ears alone. 

"I won't say I don't find no concern in it, neither. There's those as says Mr. Frodo'd be seeking after a bride, but I ain't one o' them. If he had an eye for one o' our lasses, he'd not run. He'd chase, and that's a fact." He fell silent, not wanting to follow his line of thinking further-- not out loud, at any rate, but his eyes flickered away towards his Sam, who sat at the bar near enough Rose Cotton to keep an eye on her, but far enough away so he wasn't obliged to speak. 

"I reckon I know your mind, Ham Gamgee, and there's no doubt it seems a bit odd he'd do such the very year your Sam's come of age and all. More than a bit, in fact." Noakes kept his own voice low out of respect for the Gaffer's concern. "It ain't done, and that's a fact-- but there ain't a one of us with the cheek to say him no, and none of his betters, neither, now Mr. Bilbo's gone and vanished away." 

"That's the truth." Hamfast scowled at his empty mug. "Well, he'll run, and there's no stopping him. What's worse, that Tom Cotton won't let his Rose run early. Not that my Sam would have the bollocks to chase her if she did-- not to look at him! See there how he keeps his eyes on his cup!" The two old hobbits watched as Rose poured Sam a fresh mug, smiling as pretty as a morning in May, while Sam flushed red to the ears and kept his head down, never seeing a bit of it. 

Noakes clucked his tongue. "He's a shy one, that's certain." 

"Shy's one thing, but that one? Bids fair to end up a bachelor, he does." Hamfast huffed with impatience, then softened his scowl as Rose came around the bar and approached with her pitcher. "Thank'ee, lass, and I'd be speaking for that lout of mine, as well." 

She blushed prettily and dipped him a curtsey, as good-natured as any hobbit could want. The Gaffer watched moodily as she padded off, not at all insensitive to the pleasant view accompanying her retreat. 

"So Mr. Frodo will run, and that's final," he sighed, "but it's to be hoped my lad's as backwards in that quarter as he is in this. Mayhap naught will come of it but a by-blow, if some lass snares Mr. Frodo in the end."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sam sipped his beer slowly and kept his eyes on his mug, not in the least unaware of his Gaffer's scowl or of Rosie Cotton's smiles, for all he looked it. He had troublesome matters to turn over in his mind, like any lad on the eve of the Hare and Hounds. Tomorrow would dawn the first day of Overlithe and with it would come the first competition. He had his mind to make up about what he must do in the chase. 

Fancy Mr. Frodo running! Sam couldn't think what to make of it. He'd spent the weeks since his birthday grieving that Rosie wouldn't run, torn between which lasses he might chase. The whole village had been abuzz over it since Spring arrived, birds a-twitter and daffodils pushing through the mould, as happened every year-- all the lads wondering who'd run, hoping there'd be enough lasses. 

If it were just another game on the green.... 

Young Tom Cotton pushed through the door, calling a greeting to his friends among the crowd. "Hullo, Sam!" He sat down and called for ale. "Are you still fretting? There's no need." He chuckled as Sam's ears went hot, and Sam knew he was blushing something fierce. "If you catch the lass you want, she won't say nay. You'll have a pretty tumble in the fields, and come up the better for it." 

Sam shrugged casually, pretending the notion didn't terrify him half out of his wits. "Ah, but who am I to chase? Dandelion Harfoot, seemingly. Half the village lads have a mind to catch her." 

"You don't want that," Tom said confidently. "We both know better. She's a bit too pert for her petticoats, and any smart lad can see it." 

"He'd best chase someone as runs slow as he thinks," Carl Goodchild chuckled from a nearby table, openly eavesdropping on their conversation. "May Belle Stoneheaver won't run more than a dozen ells, all told!" 

"May Belle's a fine cook, and not her fault if she samples a bit of what she makes," Tom answered him, good-natured. "And if aught comes between her and Bowman Sandybanks, he'll have summat to say about it, I'm thinking." 

"Mayhap Sam's got a mind to chase after that Mr. Baggins," Carl said, and half the common room tittered to hear it. "But I'm thinking he'll find himself running from naught at all." 

Sam grimaced. That happened, more often than not-- one or two of the hares would run, only to find no hound on her heels. He still remembered Dora Weaver from last year's race; she'd stopped her useless running when the hounds had all but run from her, and gone walking home with her head up high, but her lip trembled when the watching hobbits laughed her on her way, and she didn't come back for no more of the party. Before she was out of sight along the Road, talk already had her an old maid with only her sister's children to dandle on her knee, and not far wrong-- Sam didn't know as she'd ever walked out with anyone, before or since. 

"Teach him his place." Daddy Twofoot scowled, taking out his pipe and thumbing weed into it from his pouch. "And mayhap we'll have no more of such foolish goings-on." 

Sam bristled, but his father beat him to the words that burned on his tongue. "Now, it's not our place to say such, and you know it." 

"He won't run to naught at all. There's half a dozen of the lasses want their names among the hounds; they've a mind to chase him-- for the sake of that fine smial up on the Hill." Farmer Cotton shook his head even as Sam blinked surprise. "The whole town's in a taking; there's no telling what might come of it. It could be we'll wind up with a mistress of Bag End." 

"That we won't," Sam said without thinking, and went crimson as the eyes of everyone in the room turned to him. 

"Would you be planning to catch him yourself, then?" Carl tittered disbelief. 

Sam's head spun; he felt his father's eyes burning at him amidst the throng. "Aye," he said faintly, and turned back to his beer as the room erupted into guffaws and shocked muttering, trying to decide for themselves if he meant the words for true. Sam didn't wait for them to ask; tipping his head back he drained his mug and slipped out into the night, then took off down the lane as fast as he could go. 

"You've landed yourself in a pickle, and no mistake, Samwise, speaking afore you think!" He told himself as he hurried away from the Ivy Bush, cutting across old Holman's fields and past the Water. "Mr. Frodo'll hear of your foolish talk before morning, and then where will you be?" He had half a mind to set himself walking through the night and never turn around nohow, maybe not stopping till he found himself in parts where folk had never heard the name of Gamgee. 

A spatter of rain gusted out of the darkling sky even as tatters of cloud shrouded over the rising Moon, and Sam turned up his collar. Spotting the remains of last year's hay-rick standing up near the Cotton's byre, he turned aside and tucked himself up under the leeward face of it where the cows had grazed it away, glad of the shelter and a chance to think. 

"Mr. Frodo, what are you playing at?" Sam fretted. He couldn't for the life of him figure it out. Burrowing up tighter against the stack, he watched the rain set in for a steady fall, streaming from the straws of hay before his face. There wasn't naught for it now but to keep his word, he reckoned. If he didn't try, he'd never hear the end of it. 

In spite of the wind and the rain, something warm fluttered in his belly. Keep his word? Oh, but wouldn't that be a pleasure in itself! To catch Mr. Frodo, pin him down-- have him exactly the way tradition demanded: laid out upon the naked earth of the nearest field? 

Sam shivered, and it had naught to do with the rain. If that was Mr. Frodo's game, there wasn't a hobbit anywhere more determined than Sam to play it. But like enough, it wasn't that at all-- surely it couldn't be Sam Gamgee the master had his cap set for. 

Sam leaned back against the stack and squirmed until he made himself a nest among the loose hay. Just beyond his nose, the rain whispered down with a steady and soothing murmur, lulling him. He'd had a pint or three of ale before he left the Ivy Bush, and a day of hard work getting ready for Overlithe. Combined, those reasons were enough for his eyelids to droop, and if not for a sharp straw poking him here and there, he'd have been as comfortable as lying at home on his own bed. 

Here, isolated by the rain and not tormented by rude onlookers, he could almost chuckle at himself. Perfectly ridiculous, the notion that he could catch Mr. Frodo and have him-- but delightful nonetheless. Sam trailed his hand over his belly and let it rest on his breeches, sighing. Best to get his dreaming over with, and put it behind him before the dawn light. 

Mr. Frodo had been slim and upright among the tittering, blushing gaggle of girls who presented themselves to run. Sam could picture him when he closed his eyes. He'd been wearing his usual morning kit: a well-tailored loose linen shirt and dark breeches, without the cumbrance of a weskit. The sun had caught in his hair as he wrote his own name on the scroll, chin set, defiant of the tittering and the gossip already starting to rumble all around. 

Sam remembered freezing, still as a fox before it bolts, as he suddenly understood where his master's name had been written-- not on the same scroll as his own. His fingers fluttered now, a delicate pressure, and he stirred his hips lazily, humming a little. He couldn't let himself linger then, slipping away for his day's work unnoticed, but now? He thought of Frodo's blunt fingers clasped on the pen, and the line of his trim back as he bent to sign, and he felt himself begin to swell. Not just any signature, that, but a contract. Frodo Baggins, offering himself up to be had by one lucky winner. 

Sam whimpered softly, the cloth of his trousers binding him as his shaft jerked, urgent and quickly began heating under his fingers. Mr. Frodo's glance, when he straightened, had moved coolly across the entire half-circle of the marketplace, absolutely without haste or shame, meeting eyes. Sam had dropped his own before their gazes touched, and hastily gone about his business. He had eggs to buy, and butter, and milk to be hauled up the Hill before the Sun rose high enough to quicken its curdling. And there were flowers to be watered and have their dead blossoms plucked, and grass to be sheared. He had half a hundred little tasks that needed doing or they'd get out of hand, come Overlithe. Quite enough to keep back the memory of those eyes. 

But now, in his mind, he met them, and they settled on him-- Frodo, his hair blowing a bit in the summer breeze that tugged open his collar. Sam could finish that job better than any wind, he'd warrant-- open that shirt and let the Sun burnish the slim alabaster body that lay beneath. His fingers tightened around himself and he squirmed, parting his thighs to give himself a bit of room to breathe. 

Ah, now that was better. Better just like the thought of grass stains on Mr. Frodo's linen shirt where Sam would tumble him to the grass, and the sight of that grass crushed under Mr. Frodo's lithe body as Sam bared it, unbuttoning velvet trousers and pulling aside the placket, hooking earth-stained fingertips into linen underclothes and dragging them down. 

And who knew better than Sam what he'd find, when he did? Sam, who occasionally tended the master at his bath, eyes downcast but not blind, hands near but not allowed to touch, face impassive as he poured warm water, as he handed over the scrubbing brush, as he held a warmed towel for the slender, water-sleek vision who rose from the washtub to be dried.... 

Sam groaned and fumbled with the button of his own breeches, dragging himself out into the cool, damp air. His imagination was so vivid he could all but feel how the sun would burn and bake at the back of his head, all but see the shadow of his own silhouette eclipsing the sun to Frodo's eyes, letting Frodo look up at Sam as Sam slid a hand behind each of Frodo's knees and bent them up against his chest and then mounted him with a slow, firm push, making Frodo cry out and clutch at him, white teeth sinking in his lip even as Sam sank deep inside him-- 

Sam gave a keening groan as his muscles contracted, and he slid onto his side, his whole body curled about the sun-hot flare of his hardened shaft, struggling not to come just from thinking of it. He held perfectly still for a while-- as still as he would be after he pressed himself all the way in to his master, as still as he would stay, trembling, until Frodo grew used to holding Sam inside himself and shifted his hips to ask for more, his eyes wide and locked on Sam's, his face beginning to haze with the sweetest sheen of salt sweat for Sam to lick away-- off his forehead, off his cheek, off the bridge of his nose with its faint suggestion of summer freckles, off his narrow chin, off his pink rosebud of a mouth. 

Sam's hand drew along his shaft in spite of his best intentions, stoking the blazing heat there, tight as Frodo's body would have to be-- for Sam didn't only attend at his bath. No, Sam set the firescreen upon Mr. Frodo's hearth on winter nights, blew out the candles, moved his reading lamp nearer the bed. And then Sam came about early the next morning, too, to find the fire burnt to ashes and the lamp empty of oil and more often than not, to find Mr. Frodo sprawled on his mattress half-curled around his bed companion: whichever book he'd lain down with before Sam left him the night before. 

"Me dear..." he murmured thickly, throat tight with the same love he felt each time he let himself into Frodo's room to open up the curtains and let morning wash in and drive away the stuffy evening air, with the same tenderness he felt when he picked up the tumbled books and put them in a neat stack while his master yawned and stretched and blinked at the flood of light. 

Sam let his left thumb, hard and rough with callus, drag around the tip of his shaft, teasing at the loose skin there, then slide over the top. He was wet, and he lifted his thumb to his mouth without thinking, licking at the salt there, as he loved to do-- tasting himself laid over a faint shadow of the beer foam that had run down the side of his mug at the Ivy Bush. 

To do that to Mr. Frodo... to wrap his own work-hardened hand around Mr. Frodo's slender arousal! To caress it, feeling skin softer than a babe's, and to touch the gleaming moisture on the tip, gather it on a forefinger, put those fingers against Mr. Frodo's lips, push past them, lay their pads on his tongue and watch his cheeks hollow as he suckled. 

Sam's mouth closed around his fingers and he sucked at the fading taste, rolling his hips, lost in the ache of his own fantasy-- withdrawing and thrusting deep again into Frodo, faster now. His master's little smothered whimpers and gasps steep in his ear, his master's tongue dancing against his fingers... Sam squeezed himself tight and pulled hard, bucking forward with his hips, a gust of wind blowing a spatter of rain over him, cool and delicate, near sizzling off his flesh. His breath hitched, then caught in his chest-- Frodo's soft black lashes, his wide blue eyes ablaze, a gush of warmth against Sam's belly, and...! 

Sam uttered a strangled yelp through clenched teeth and came, body straining, frantic, his seed wet between his fingers and warm on his palm-- half a dozen long spasms, body wracked anew with each, agonized with bliss. The echo of his cry made the sheep in the nearest pen mill about, their hooves squelching in the mud, the noise ceasing as they settled. Moaning low in his throat, exhausted, he turned over to burrow against the haystack, not bothering to fasten himself up, and brought his wet palm to his mouth for a slow lick-- the fingers of his left hand ached a bit, narrow red troughs pressed into the flesh where he'd bitten them. 

His seed tasted rich and a little bitter, like good beer, and his eyes closed as he licked at it, imagining Frodo's there instead, and Frodo's mouth on his hand. 

The night folded around him and the rain poured down, but Sam lay cozy under his haystack, his sated body and mind already drifting away into sleep.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"What's this, then?" The tones were feminine, deeply amused, and they stirred Sam from a dream of lying in bed with the covers kicked off, unable to find them, and as he blinked, he realized he wasn't far wrong. He was lying on the ground, stiff and uncomfortable and more than a little cold. He squinted at the steel-grey sky. Nearly dawn, and the voice was.... 

"Sam Gamgee, if I didn't know better, I'd say you'd come here to pine because I can't run for three years yet." Warm, that voice, flirtatious, and terribly familiar. 

...Rose Cotton. He groaned and rubbed his eyes, but he wasn't dreaming. 

"But I do, for the whole of Hobbiton was talking of naught but you all the night." Her voice changed, turning tart. "You and that master of yours, what's worse, Sam! Still, if you don't get up and about, I'll warrant my da will give you a clout, finding you here, laying in wait for me, so to speak!" 

"I wasn't," Sam blurted, rolling over to face her automatically, and getting up to his knees in a panic, feeling a rather urgent need to be away. A clout from Farmer Cotton's thick fist was naught to risk. "It took in raining while I was on my way home, and I come for a bit of shelter." 

"Better if you hid up in the byre." She eyed him critically; there was some amusement in her voice now, and something else. More than one something-- something sharp, and something silky-warm. "If you want to be a bit private-like. For I know you hadn't enough ale in you to fall over asleep after leaving it against the byre." 

Private-like? What...? Sam suddenly felt a draft, and crimson heat leaped into his face; he'd forgot to do himself up, and now his breeches were hanging open. His hands flew to his breeches, snatching them shut. Agonized with embarrassment, he kept his eyes on her toes, desperate for her to go so he could fasten himself up proper and creep away before it got any brighter. 

"Sam." Her voice fell, and some of the sharpness crept out of it, replaced by that growing warmth. "Sam, what would you say if I asked that you not go to the Overlithe Festival today? It's been a troubled night, and you've passed it without no comfort. Climb up in the loft of the byre-- there's horse blankets there, and straw. You can wrap yourself up and have a sleep, and I'll be about my chores. But when I've done, I'll come up, and there'll be no need for chasing hares about the countryside. Sam, what think you?" Her hand crept out, and her fingers plucked a straw from a curl of his hair, then teased the curl to wind around them. She sounded... wistful. 

Sam gulped, feeling like a fox circling a trap-- sniffing at the bait inside, knowing the trap would fall around his ears if he touched it. But oh, it sounded so good, and he could all but taste it. It weren't just Mr. Frodo he had an eye for, and that was a fact-- how could you spend all your life looking at the pale cool Moon and knowing you couldn't have a bit of him, and shun the light of the Sun, with her golden hair and her shining warmth reaching out to touch you? You couldn't, and that was a fact. 

"Don't you believe me?" She glanced about right quick, biting her lip, and then dropped the wooden milking pails she was holding and snatched up her skirts to her thighs, bundling them inside one fist. Sam blinked at her legs, which he hadn't seen since she was a wee lass, but he didn't have time to gawp, for she was moving, bearing him over and kneeling with her thighs on either side of his, and she was up against his hand where it held his breeches closed, and she hadn't nothing on underneath the skirts at all, soft hair tickling against his hand, and heat.... 

"Rosie!" Sam yelped, nearly jumping out of his skin. His body leaped to attention with predictable urgency. "Your father, now, he'd do more than clout me for this!" Sam Gamgee knew he weren't ready to be married, not a bit of it, and that was a fact! 

"A sparrow in the hand, now, isn't that worth more than a peacock you've heard tell of somewhere off behind the hedgerow?" Rosie's weight was sturdy on him, and she moved, wet and warm, and he realized his hand had turned over in spite of itself, fingers moving to explore in sheer fascination this hidden landscape of folds and curves and slick wet heat. She shuddered once, and he watched in fascination, moving his fingers again over the spot to watch her bite her lip and draw her breath, charmed like a bird by the weaving of a snake. The curves of her breasts were rising before his face as she inhaled, and they were milk-smooth and downed with the softest, palest hair he'd ever beheld. She might be three years yet from coming of age, but her body didn't seem to know aught of that, and his didn't neither-- that was a fact. 

A door creaked and banged shut entirely too close by for comfort, and Sam flinched, near-frantic with guilt. "Rosie, your da...!" Bother it, he was near as good as married off already, if he was caught with his hand where it was and all! 

She was on her feet quick as lightning, skirts falling proper-like around her ankles, reaching to snatch her milk-pails. "I'll look for you in the loft at forenoon," she purred, and darted away, leaving Sam stone-hard and staring after her, completely flummoxed. 

Nibs Cotton's shrill voice greeted her, and that sent Sam's fingers flying to put himself to rights. It was still dark enough for him to duck behind the sheep-pen and find the shelter of the hedgerow without being seen; the sheep bleated and milled about, but he was already safe, the puddles in the lane shattered by his running feet. 

A cock crowed as he fled the farm, and he winced-- he ought to be up at Bag End already, tending the flowers so he'd be finished in time for the festival. If he meant to go-- if he could go, what with Rosie expecting him and all! But he must; he'd given his word, and he hadn't give no word at all to Rosie, for all she'd done. He hadn't done naught; she'd done it herself. 

By the time he reached Number Three, puffing and gasping and spent from his run up the Hill the Gaffer was out in the yard, scowling. "Here I thought I'd have to send the Shirriffs out looking for 'ee, Samwise. For shame, laying out all the night! 'Ee may be of age, but 'ee ain't a tomcat. Or at least I thought 'ee weren't." He narrowed his eyes shrewdly, looking off the way Sam had come. "'Ee haven't been visiting down to the Cotton's farm, have 'ee? Getting an early start on Overlithe?" 

Sam just stared at him with his chin dropping, guilt writ large over his face, and the Gaffer cackled. "There's hope for 'ee yet. I'll admit I had half a thought to see 'ee creeping out of Bag End instead. Get in that house and have a quick wash, Sam, and run along up the Hill. There's chores to be done, and I'll see to it 'ee don't slack 'em, not even if 'ee lay out every night of the week!" 

Sam obeyed, and by the time the Sun rose over the Eastfarthing, he was on his knees in the yard up on the Hill, rooting out a dandelion from the grass of the lawn. The last of the night's clouds were shredding into flocks, herded away by the morning breeze, catching the gold of the rising Sun and leaving behind a rain-washed blue sky. 

A clatter from inside let him know that Mr. Frodo was up and about, not waiting abed to be wakened; there was already smoke rising from the chimney and Sam sighed, feeling a bit of guilt over missing his morning duties, for all it wasn't the time he usually begun them yet. He kept at his work, moving quickly about the yard, and was a third from finished when Mr. Frodo emerged with a mug in one hand and his pipe in the other. 

Sam blushed and touched his cap, wondering if his master had heard aught of the gossip from the Ivy Bush, but Mr. Frodo just nodded and spoke to him, polite as usual. 

Mr. Frodo crossed the yard to sit, but frowned at his favourite bench; its seat was wet, so he vanished away inside and come out with a tea-towel to wipe himself a dry place to sit while he sipped from his mug and then smoked his pipe. He savoured it with long slow puffs, and not a word came out of his mouth after "Good morning, Sam," though his bright eyes followed Sam as he moved about the yard. 

A bird in the hand. Sam sighed, remembering Rosie's wet little maiden's nest hot against his fingers. Now that the night was over, the bright of day showed his foolish dreams for what they were. There weren't no way he could have Mr. Frodo, like he'd daydreamed it. He ought to just give over his plans to chase and go back down to the farm, where Rosie would be waiting. If they didn't get caught, Farmer Cotton wouldn't have no reason to make Sam up and marry, and Farmer Cotton wouldn't catch them, would he, being off at the festival for the day. 

"Will you be finished in time to come down for the running?" Frodo looked out from under his eyelashes, then breathed in a draught of sweet smoke. His casual words interrupted Sam's thinking. He pressed the stem of his pipe against his lower lip and blew spent smoke out through his nostrils, its sweet scent briefly curling around Sam even from halfway across the yard. 

"Aye," Sam murmured truthfully-- he would, whether he went down or no. Already half-roused from the thought of Rosie, his body tightened at the sound of Mr. Frodo's voice. 

"Good. I'll see you there." Mr. Frodo rose, perfectly composed, and took his pipe and his mug back inside the house, then came back out again and set off down the Road. 

Well, that settled that! Sam sat back on his heels and mopped his forehead with his sleeve. It might mean Rosie wouldn't ever forgive him, but those last five words... even as cool as they'd been, Sam couldn't imagine not going anymore. Not a bit of it. 

He finished up quick as he could, blessing the night's soaking rain, for it meant he'd not have to draw water and carry buckets of it through the garden, which would have held him up till near midday. When he was done he stood up and washed his hands at the well, then squared his shoulders and looked down the Hill to the party field. Hobbits were already trickling in to begin the festival; cookfires had been lit and smoke curled up and away into the blue. 

Out in one end of the field stood a pole with a rippling banner marking where Sam was to be next, and sparing a guilty thought for Rosie, he trotted down the Road and slipped into the Field. He made a point of nodding and speaking to those as he saw, but wore a red face nonetheless, for he could hear the rumor of last night's talk at the Ivy Bush, complete with his part in it, making a rapid journey from mouth to ear everywhere he passed. At this rate, Frodo would have heard it, too. 

His stomach growled loudly, warning him that he'd missed his breakfast, so he paused for a thick slab of toast and a generous helping of blackberry jam, licking his fingers and looking about. Many of the young lasses had snips of red ribbon tied in their hair or on to their bodices, and the sight made him duck his head shyly-- those were the tokens for this phase of the chase, each with its owner's name carefully penned on the fabric. Win one of those today, and it meant you could chase its owner on the morrow, when the real chase started. The girls were walking about sedately now, but soon they wouldn't be. 

The crowd had swelled while he ate; he could hear Farmer Cotton's round tones from somewhere near the hedge. Flushing, Sam made himself scarce, ducking around behind the party tree-- and nearly stumbling over his master, who was busy tying ribbons to his shirt. 

"Excuse me," Sam stammered, clutching and twisting his jacket-tail in the absence of a cap. "I didn't see--" 

Frodo shook his head, impatiently waving aside the apology. "I could use some help, Sam-- I haven't figured out the trick of doing this." 

Sam smiled in spite of himself, glad Frodo didn't seem to have heard the gossip-- at least not yet. "Well, seeing as how I watched Daisy help May nigh on four years ago now, I think I might know the way of it." He stepped up and accepted one of the ribbons, then looped it through Mr. Frodo's buttonhole, securing it with a half-bow, so it would come away when tugged. 

"You haven't got all the lace and trimmings of a lass, so it's a bit harder to find a place to put them," he murmured, feeling his heart pound-- this was worse than Rosie, having Mr. Frodo so near, tying these very tokens onto him when he hoped to win one for himself later! He laced a second ribbon onto Mr. Frodo's collar button, and began to affix one of them to each of his buttons-- stopping well before the band of his trousers, of course. 

"It is," Frodo agreed, looking away from Sam's busy fingers without moving his head, gazing up through his lashes to catch Sam's eye. "You were quick in the garden this morning." 

"Aye, well, the rain did half my job for me, and that's good fortune." Sam thought for a minute, out of buttons, then tied ribbons to the tip of Mr. Frodo's collar on either side. 

"That should be enough. I'm not planning to give many away, and if I lose one, I can replace it." Frodo tucked the rest of the ribbons in to his trouser pocket and buttoned the flap over them so as not to lose any by accident-- that could lead to most unpleasant results. 

Sam stepped back politely, watching the ribbons disappear-- it might have been clever, he realized, to steal one away now, while he had his hands on it. Too late for that-- they were gone, and he'd have to take his chances. Not that he thought he couldn't catch Mr. Frodo if he pleased, but... well, it was hard, that was all. Cruel hard to have to do such a thing, what with half the Shire watching. 

Frodo smiled at him suddenly, a mischievous expression as though he could guess what Sam was thinking, and darted around the trunk of the tree back into the festival-- when Sam followed, rather slowly, he was walking across the green, upright, whistling, with a decidedly pleased air. 

Sam shook his head, amused in spite of himself. He'd just have to take his chances, along with everyone else. 

He wandered out, taking a turn along the booths lined up along the edge of the meadow-- sampling fresh honey, buttermilk, and scones along the way, watching a group of lads and lasses who weren't yet of age as they struck up a dance on the green. The Springle-Ring; its clamour of bells seemed to kick the party off in fine form; all of Hobbiton was present now, more or less, with dainties in hand just like Sam, laughing and chattering in the fine weather. 

Worn out from rambling through the festival, Sam leaned back on a post to watch, content to bide his time until the next phase of the chase started, but a word caught his ear, and he cocked his head, the better to listen to the conversation going on behind the nearest booth. 

"Aye, well, if you've a mind to chase him, that's all the same to me. I'll help you corner him today, but not tomorrow. I'll have a field of my own to plow, then!" Guffaws greeted the statement. Sam fell in to follow the three lads and tried not to look like he was listening. Rowly Brookstone, that was. He waited to hear more, wondering who had a mind to chase Mr. Frodo and why he thought he might need help with it. 

"I'll tend to my field, tomorrow. I just want to be sure of getting a token! Mayhap he thinks he's clever enough to run in the 1 Lithe without running the 2, but we'll show him better, lads." 

"That we will." The three laughed and separated, leaving Sam to stew in his juices. 

He sighed, rambling further towards the Road as he thought-- that was young Erling Noakes and his cousin Fal, joined at the hip ever since they were old enough to steal a pie. Pleasant fellows, but with a wild hair for mischief, the both of them. They didn't have naught good in mind, especially as young Erling was already rumored to have sown his seed afield. It well on its way to bearing fruit, too, to judge by the way Campion Bridgewater's belly had swollen since Yule, and her father's scowling face every time he laid his eyes on young Noakes. 

Well, that was one thing Erling could hardly do to Mr. Frodo, at the least. As for the rest, Sam would just have to-- 

He gulped, his thought shattered, and ducked behind the nearest booth himself; there was Rosie Cotton threading through the crowd with spots of high color on her cheeks, her pretty rosebud mouth set in a pout, and her eyes hard enough to drive nails. Surely it wasn't forenoon already! 

A hand caught his arm and pulled him back further into the shadow-- Tom Cotton, chuckling a bit. "Best to avoid the lass, Sam, and I'm telling ye true. It seems she's of a mind to give ye the rough side of her tongue; mayhap for what ye said in the bar last evening." 

"I never promised her naught!" Sam bleated, flushing to the ears. 

"Well you know that, and I know it too, but a lass doesn't think the same as a lad, seemingly. Mind the time, Sam-- it's near noon, and you'll be expected on the green. Be off with you, now. She won't be able to get at you once you're part of the gather, for all that she's spent half the month nagging Da to let her run early." 

Tom gave Sam a cordial shove, and he darted across the path in Rosie's wake, threading his way stealthily through the booths. He felt rather more like a hare than a hound himself by the time he reached the green, its pleasant grass trampled flat by the morning's dance. 

Mr. Frodo was already standing on the grass amidst the hares, most of whom were giving him a wide berth, scowling all the while-- not liking the notion of so much competition, Sam reckoned. He took his own place amidst the hounds, then realized a third group had gathered-- girls, none of them wearing ribbons on their frocks. They stood close by the hounds, and must be hounds themselves-- planning on chasing after Mr. Frodo, Sam would warrant. He nearly groaned aloud. There were six, and as he watched another joined them. Seven extra hounds, all after Mr. Frodo! And no telling how many of the lads fancied him. 

Sam set his jaw, putting a stolid, pleasant look on his face, and vowed not to show his dismay, but the look slipped when Rosie Cotton herself came flouncing past, haughtily ignoring him-- and joined the knot of skirted hounds. Sam cast over his shoulder wide-eyed, finding Farmer Cotton and Mrs. Cotton standing at the edge of the field, arms folded and mouths pinched tight with disapproval, but evidently Rosie had managed the last word. Tom stood behind them chuckling openly, laughing even more when Sam fixed him with a scowl. 

Well, if that didn't settle it, nothing would. Sam Gamgee would catch Mr. Frodo for himself, and that was flat. 

The crowd stirred, muttering approval, disdain, and scandal combined as old Daddy Sandheaver came forth-- at a tidy ninety-eight, he was one of the oldest hobbits in Hobbiton. Good-natured and thin as a rail from a life of rough labor, he was still spry enough to get out and about, and had replaced Mr. Bilbo in this ceremonial duty after the latter's vanishment in years past. Sam helped another of the hounds give him a hand up onto a bench, and he held out his hands for quiet. The murmur gradually died and he let the air hang silent, expectant, for a long moment before he spoke. 

"This being the sixty-fifth running of the Hare and Hounds since I run when I was just a lad, I'll be telling ye the rules. Mind ye follow 'em, or ye won't be let to run tomorrow. Chase all ye want and run as fast as ye like, but ye must stay within the Party Field to do it, or ye won't be held fit for tomorrow's chase. Hounds, chase all the hares ye wish, and if ye catch a hare, ye win a proper kiss. If she--" he glared for a moment and reversed himself "--the hare be givin' ye a token with it, that means ye can chase her-- the hare, confound it-- tomorrow. Gather right back here at middle-night for an accounting of the tokens." 

He paused, glowering a bit. "I don't hold with this year's doings, mind you, lads running and lasses chasing, but I'll warrant the crops will grow green nonetheless. My Dad's Dad, now, he remembered when this race were run stark naked, and none o' this foolishness with tokens, but the sky ain't dried up and the grass ain't shriveled none on account of them changes, so mayhap we won't have drought and famine for all of this, like some says. The harder ye run the sweeter the catching, and the taller the corn will grow, no doubt." He gazed in a circle around the green, making them all wait for a handful of heartbeats, while the wind teased at his ragged white hair. 

"Well, be about it," he scowled, and near fell over backwards, bench and all, as the assembled group exploded into violent motion. Sam leaped to steady him, and by the time he was on his feet again, the green was as bare as the circle around a lightning strike, with no sign of Rosie, nor of Frodo, neither. 

He bit his lip, casting about-- the rows were a melee of running young hobbits, with old gaffers and gammers shaking fists after the ones as had jostled them. Another day he would have laughed, but today Sam jammed his hands in his pockets soberly and set about wandering at a steady pace. No sense getting winded; he still had till middle-night and hares would be easiest to catch after they tired. 

He rounded the corner of a booth, thinking of finding a bite for his noon meal, only to fall gasping to the grass, all the breath knocked out of him. Blinking up against the Sun, he found himself tangled with May Belle Stoneheaver herself, run straight into him while fleeing other hounds. 

"Sam Gamgee!" She yelped right sharp as they recovered, flailing against him in a tangle of skirts and petticoats and nice soft warm hobbit-lass. "What are you about, lurking so?" 

"Catching myself a hare, seemingly," he chuckled in spite of himself. This was a bit more like it, to his way of thinking. He'd found a reason to appreciate the game at last. 

Half the lads in Hobbiton caught up and circled about, puffing and scowling; he'd scored a strong point and no mistake. 

May Belle scowled at Sam and struggled upright, dusting herself off; he followed her. "You wouldn't be leaving without my reward," he reminded her, and she frowned, then considered the boys circled about and thought better of it and leaned in to peck him on the cheek. 

"That's no proper kiss," Sam shook his head. "You wouldn't be so miserly, would you? Or mayhap these lads will think twice about the running." It was the simple truth; Festival kisses were a legend among the Shire youth, for it was the one time you could do just as you liked without getting a clout from your elders. 

She glared again, eyes fit to burn him down where he stood, but stepped up and let him put his arms around her, so he did-- making sure to hold her right around the waist, since all the lads were looking. It wouldn't do to let them mock him, after. 

"Now then," he said, quashing his nerves, and put his mouth against hers just as cheeky as you please-- and she opened her mouth for him, startling him half out of his wits-- just as hot as Rosie had been behind the haystack, and them hardly having said two words to one another in as many years, and her annoyed with him to boot. 

His body kindled-- all but forgotten till now, the ache Rosie's forward touch had kindled before the dawn caught flame again, and he met May Belle's skillful tongue clumsily but enthusiastically with his own, forgetting anything except his armful of pretty lass. She made a little sound, startlement perhaps, and nestled right up against him, her arms twining around his neck, her whole body pliant against him. 

At last she pulled back. "Now, that's something like." Her sharp tones had gone to a purr. "You're a surprise, Sam Gamgee, and no mistake." She shifted, pushing forwards against him, and Sam went red to the ears-- somehow he'd got his leg half between hers, and she was pressed right up against him, no way for her not to feel how randy she'd got him, nohow! Worse yet, he'd got his hand set on her breast somehow, and it was soft and warm through her bodice. 

She just laughed at him, soft-like, ignoring the other lads, who were whooping and catcalling fit to beat the band. "You'd change a girl's mind, you would." She took his hand off her, and vanished like the hare she was-- leaving him with a bit of ribbon tucked into his palm and his state of mind evident for all to see. 

Sam dithered, casting about frantically, but the lads were streaming past, indifferent to him in their pursuit except for one. There stood Mr. Frodo, leaning against a post to watch, his chest shaking with poorly-stifled laughter. 

"Will you chase her tomorrow, Sam?" Frodo teased. "I think she'd like it if you won." 

Sam coloured again, even deeper than before, but Mr. Frodo's eyes sparkled with mischief, and he glanced from side to side, then took a single slow step back, then paused and ever-so-slowly took another-- baiting him, Sam would have sworn it! --before vanishing into the crowd even as a shout went up to announce his presence, and a handful of female hounds stampeded past in hot pursuit. 

It gave Sam the time he needed to give himself a quick adjustment through his breeches, tucking his problem up tight behind the waistband where it was less obvious, and slip away. He couldn't run in this state nohow; plus, he was all of a dither. What with all the kissing and the flirting and the ribbon in his fist, he was all hot and bothered. 

Wisely Sam sought a nice shady corner and a mug of ale to calm himself; he only had one ribbon he wanted to seek after anyhow, so there weren't no rush. It took a bit for his composure to return, but the mug of beer he'd found, and the bread and apples and cheese he took to go along with it soon worked wonders for his state of mind. Watching the chase did, too-- he could see a fair bit of it passing by, and some of the hares were wearing down already, their hair frazzled and their steps slowing. 

Tom Cotton ambled by, and Sam called to him, waving him over-- a thought had occurred to him, rather slower than it might. "Tom, why ain't you running this year? You ought to run, by rights, being the same age as me and all." 

Tom just laughed at him, not without a note of the smug. "Aye, well, the lass I'd be having? She's not out of her tweens yet. I'm biding my time." He seemed to think Sam ought to know what he meant, but Sam couldn't reckon it nohow, no matter how he figured-- and that smug look left him a bit aggrieved, so he weren't about to ask. 

Instead he looked past his friend, distracted by the sight of Fal and Rowly with their heads together. They gesticulated wildly, Fal describing some sort of arch into the air, and Rowly shook his head. They couldn't be planning to set a rabbit trap for Frodo, not with innocent passers who might run afoul of it, so Sam forced himself to relax. Tom was watching him, eyes gleaming with good humor. 

"You don't seem so hot for the chase yourself this year, Sam. Mayhap you should have waited for our Rosie to be of an age to run proper." 

Sam squirmed, not liking the reminder. "Tom, I'm not at all sure she had a mind to wait." 

"You may have the right of it there, though she wouldn't have come to this pass if you'd waited. She's had her cap set for you ever since she could toddle, and no mistake." He reached and snagged a mug of beer from a lass carrying a tray through the crowd. "Mind you, she's already collected herself a token, Sam." 

Sam's head jerked up and he near spilled his beer. He blinked at Tom, startled. "Who in the world from?" 

"Aster Goodchild, your own cousin, Sam!" Tom threw his head back and near split a seam laughing at the look on Sam's face. "You should see yourself-- you look like a cow stuck halfway over the stile, and can't make up its mind whether it better go forward or back." He leaned over to Sam, conspiratorial. 

"I'll tell you a thing, though. If you don't get about it, she'll put you to shame, and that's a fact. If 'twas me, I'd not be a-setting here brooding on it, if I were you. The race has been on for more than an hour, and the hares are getting footsore. Get yourself out there and gather up some tokens. There's no rule says you have to chase a lass, even if you take a ribbon from her. This is a custom as is meant to enjoy; make hay while the Sun shines!" 

Sam considered; Tom's words had sense to them. "Well, I might." 

"Do it. And have a thought for that master of yours, while you're at it. Word has it the hounds have him cornered up in the Party Tree." 

Sam shook his head, laughing. "There's not a hobbit would follow him up there, not even me." 

"Maybe so and maybe not, but he's got to come down sometime. And word has it my sister's making ready to climb after him, so you'd best be hurrying." 

Sam did, not bothering with the last swallow from his mug-- and sure enough, a knot of hounds was clustered down under the Party Tree. This must have been what Rowly and Fal was on about; Mr. Frodo weren't visible up in the branches, but his voice could be heard, trading jests and dares with the hounds on the ground. 

"I'm not moving from this spot till it suits me. If there's a hound down there with any courage, let him come up!" Frodo laughed. 

Sam winced as he drew near, seeing Rosie's curly head turn back to answer. "I've half a mind to do it, Mr. Frodo, for you're a rascal, and that's flat!" 

"You can't climb no tree in them skirts, Rose Cotton," Sam blurted before he thought better of it; he knew better than any of the others just how true it was-- for he knew first-hand she might well have naught on under them to turn away watching eyes. 

"Is that a fact?" Rosie's head turned and her eyes narrowed at Sam, hot with irritation. "Well, you just try and stop me." She reached down and gathered her skirts, knotting them in front of her just below her hips, then reached up to snatch a branch, and Sam swallowed hard, rounding on the others. 

"Stand back now, if she's a mind to climb-- you ain't looking up her skirts." Sam pushed at a lad. "Get back now, if you know what's good for you!" 

"Aye." There was Tom, right behind Sam. "You'd best be standing back." 

The adding of his voice convinced all but the most stubborn, and a few shoves soon had the assembled group moved back beyond the outskirts of the branches. Sam glanced back to be sure Rosie wasn't in trouble; she'd hoisted herself up onto the lowest branch somehow and was reaching for another, but her skirts had caught a snag, and she had to pause to free them. The tied-up skirts didn't give her much covering, that was certain. A scandalized titter went up from the hobbits who'd assembled to watch the chase. 

"Don't you be window shopping neither, Sam, seeing as how you ain't planning to buy." Tom cuffed him jovially. Sam turned away, flushing, but he was relieved-- when she was changing for the party, Rosie had evidently thought the better of going about without no drawers on. 

After another moment Tom hissed a worried breath and Sam bit his lip, struggling not to check on Rosie's progress. "Now, you hang on tight to that branch, Rosie, for it's a long way to fall," Tom warned. "Don't you go hurting yourself!" 

"Mistress Rose, you're a caution." Frodo's laughing voice filtered through the leaves. "And you've more spirit in you than any dozen of the lads here." Sam could hear the rustle of branches and a bit of scraping like cloth. "Put an arm about the trunk and stay where you are; you've earned your token." 

"He's coming down for her," Tom breathed, more than a faint note of relief in his voice. Sam seethed, torn between relief and worry. 

"You're a fine sport, Mr. Frodo!" Rosie laughed, sounding not a bit worried at being near ten foot up the tree. "And if I had breeches on, I'd have climbed to catch you, were you perched on the topmost branch!" 

"And then not been able to get herself down, like as not," Sam grumbled. Tom just elbowed him with a snort. 

"Good day to you, Mistress Rose," Mr. Frodo sounded considerably closer to the ground now. "How are you keeping?" 

"I'll be a sight better when I'm back on the ground, but we've got business first," she answered him, just as pert as you please. "Thank you, sir; you're a proper gentleman." 

"Perhaps not so proper today as on other days of the year," Mr. Frodo chuckled ruefully. "But you've earned your token, and your kiss." 

"I'll have both right here, by your leave." Rosie's voice was firm. "For I ain't so sure I can get back down again in one piece, if you follow." 

"I'll help you." Mr. Frodo's voice was teased with threads of laughter. 

Sam snorted, and it was his turn to elbow Tom, but his triumph soon vanished, considering the yelps and cheers rising from the assembly, and the catcalls and advice mingled among them. It weren't anywhere near soon enough when Mr. Frodo's voice called for Tom, and together the two of them helped Rosie down-- Mr. Frodo's own red ribbon tied to a curl of her hair for safekeeping. 

Sam scowled at her, and she smiled at him, pert as you please, then let down her skirt and flounced off into the crowd. Mr. Frodo just sat up on his branch, chuckling, his feet hanging in the air, then let himself drop to the ground and darted away into the throng, too fast for any of the hounds to stop him. 

Stung by Rosie's example, Sam joined the game in earnest, and by the time came for supper, he'd accumulated a nice handful of ribbons from various lasses. His heart weren't in it, though. Sweet as the kisses were, they weren't what he was wanting, and he had a suspicion he was only feeding Rosie's ire. 

He spotted Frodo a time or two, stealing through the fair, darting past a booth or through the heart of a dance; each time he noted that Rowly and the Noakes lads weren't far away. As far as Sam could see, the three of them spent most of the afternoon stalking about and trying to corner him, but he was too quick for them, and too clever. Much of the time, Frodo was nowhere to be seen. He'd a bolt-hole somewhere, or Sam was a rabbit. 

Rosie was about, but she seemed to have given up after taking her prize in the tree, and likely she had-- she was out to make Sam sweat, and that was plain, but he didn't reckon she actually meant to catch nobody, come tomorrow. Him, though... he still had a mind to keep his promise, if only he could figure out how. Even with the festival and all, a lad like Sam didn't just chase 'round and grab a hobbit like Frodo Baggins-- at least, Sam couldn't seem to see how, no matter how he wanted. He reckoned nightfall might make that easier-- not so many eyes would see him then if he could catch Mr. Frodo for that kiss, and the bit of ribbon that went with it. If he could find Mr. Frodo's bolt-hole, maybe no eyes would have to see them at all. 

Sam sat down to rest his tired feet, clutching a bowl of good thick stew dipped from a huge kettle that had bubbled over a bonfire all the afternoon, with hot flat bread straight out of the little brick ovens as had been laid special for the occasion, and new butter. It was understood that those hares as came to sit down for supper weren't to be troubled by none of the hounds till they'd finished. 

"Sam." Warm hands fell on his shoulders and Mr. Frodo's soft voice tickled his ear, startling him so his spoon made a clatter inside the pottery bowl. "You've had a fine afternoon, I see!" Mr. Frodo's fingertips played in the ribbons at Sam's collar for a moment, dithering him right and proper. "The stew looks good-- wait and I'll join you." Within a few moments Mr. Frodo returned, carrying a bowl of his own, and sat down at the trestle table, steadying himself on the wobbly bench. 

He smiled at Sam, that secret, bright-eyed look, and nodded towards the fluttering bits of ribbon tucked through the uppermost buttonhole of Sam's knitted weskit. "Have you caught everyone you meant to?" The way he leaned in made the question private, and the glee in his expression were anything but proper. 

Sam's face burned with colour, but he knew an opportunity when he saw one. "Well now, me and Tom reckoned there's no sense giving up till you've taken a snippet of ribbon and a kiss from all the hares as is running." 

Frodo's smile was slow and his eyes gleamed with good humor and perhaps a bit of something more. "I've always said Tom Cotton had a good head on his shoulders." He took his wooden spoon and dipped it in the stew, savoring a bite with a sigh and lowered lashes. He chewed for a moment, expression thoughtful. "But you can't have caught them all yet." Soft, a little sly, his voice also held a faint hint of an unspoken question. 

"Aye," Sam agreed. "There's one or two as I'm still chasing." He dared to lift his eyes to meet Frodo's. Their gazes locked, Frodo's smile curving his perfect little mouth innocently under the merry, dancing mischief in his eyes. "Saving the best for last, you might say." Sam felt his throat grow dry with his daring, and he took a swig of ale to wet it. 

Mr. Frodo just laughed at him, eyes dancing. "You'll have to hunt harder to catch the best." He took another bite of stew, as composed as though he were sitting at his own table in Bag End eating breakfast. 

"Aye," Sam answered him again, mouth all but dry. "I suppose I shall." He scooped his bread through his bowl and chewed slowly, considering. "But I've no worries, for I've got a fine hand at snaring coneys." His heart thumped hard in his chest to hear the words, disbelieving his own cheek. 

"Have you?" Mr. Frodo murmured, scooping up a spoonful of stew. "Got a fine hand?" 

"Aye," Sam said, voice low and huskier than he'd expected. "That I do." Mr. Frodo's eyes rose to his, demure under thick dark lashes, and Sam coloured even more, cheeks flaming hot, but he met them. "And what's more, I'll warrant you'll be finding it out for yourself, come tomorrow." 

Frodo's lips curved with sly pleasure. "You'll have to catch me first. Twice." 

"I'll be doing that, never fear." Sam's pulse pounded so hard he could scarce hear himself speak, much less think, over its dizzy roar in his ears. Tearing his eyes away from Mr. Frodo's and trying to drop them with proper respect, he found he couldn't look at naught but Mr. Frodo's soft pink mouth, and the flicker of his tongue-tip wetting his lips. 

"You'll have to deal with a few other matters first," Frodo laughed suddenly, conspiratorial. "Do what you have to, then come make good on your boast, Sam." He got up, his slim hips taunting Sam with a lazy roll as he carried his empty bowl away, but suddenly an object intervened, and Sam blinked, raising his eyes with bewilderment along an apron and then a bodice, finding Rosie Cotton's scowl waiting for him at the top.


	2. Frodo/Sam (FINISHED)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo/Sam (finished!)

"Samwise Gamgee." She sat down in Mr. Frodo's abandoned seat, glowering across the table at Sam. "You left a lady waiting this noontide." 

Sam felt his cheeks heat and prickle unpleasantly with shame and regret. "I'm sorry, Rosie, truly I am." He eyed his fingers, splayed against the weathered grey boards of the table. 

"I don't believe a word of it." There were hot spots of color on her cheeks, and her eyes were too bright. "Any other lad would've had me on my back in that haystack before I knew what he was about, but not Samwise Gamgee!" 

"Rosie!" He glanced about, horrified at the nearness of the other hobbits and the tone of her voice, which was nowhere near a whisper. "Lass, have a mind how loud you're talking." 

Rosie ignored him, lacing her fingers together and then apparently thinking better of it and placing her hands in her lap, mayhap to hide their trembling. "I reckon that ought to teach me you ain't made me no promises." She leaned forward, her eyes intent, and this time she lowered her voice. "Samwise, you'll never be mistress of Bag End and you know it. Leastways, you ought to. When you figure that out, I'll be waiting for you-- or not, if you wait too late." 

Without another word she rose and stalked away; Sam sat stunned and miserable, watching her thread her way through the crowd and down to the hedge. She slipped through the stile and went off down the Road, shoulders bowed with her distress. 

Sam waited her out of sight, then got up shakily and found his way to the bottom of a tall mug of ale before he let himself think on what had just passed. It weren't that he didn't like Rosie-- he did!-- but when he looked on Mr. Frodo, there weren't nobody else he could think of, not even Rosie Cotton. 

Still, it weren't his fault she'd tied herself all of a knot over this; Sam hadn't tried to encourage her hopes. She'd made her own decisions. And like enough she was right about Mr. Frodo. There weren't no way Sam could have him. But this, now, this was Sam's only hope to have Mr. Frodo-- for an hour, maybe, or a day-- and he couldn't give it up, not even if it hurt Rosie. After all, she was right about another thing: he hadn't never made her no promises to lead her on by. 

It took Sam a while to regain his normal cheerful spirits, but the party was still unabated by the arrival of dusk, and at length he stirred himself to watch Mr. Frodo and figure out a pattern to his comings and goings, but it weren't no use. At last the wheeling of the stars reminded him that he had only limited time left before middle-night, so he reckoned he'd best get to work if he didn't want to come up empty-handed. 

As Sam took off towards the party tree, he suddenly noticed something he hadn't before. A lass emerged from behind a flap of tent, all secretive-like, her hair tousled and her cheeks flushed bright. Sam blinked, then averted his gaze; he lingered near the spot and not too long after, a lad came out, looking more than a little smug and equally tousled. When they'd passed out of sight, he investigated for himself-- there was a gap between the tents just there, big enough to hide in, and Sam knew at last how Mr. Frodo had to be avoiding his pursuers. 

This time as he passed through the rows of tents and small pavilions, he knew what to look for, and saw several likely spots where the walls didn't quite come together proper. The one the trysting couple had used looked to be the largest of them-- most were considerably smaller, the tents' owners making better use of the field's limited space. Knowing Mr. Frodo, he'd use one as folks were hardly like to find. 

Even as the thought struck him, Mr. Frodo flashed before him, running hard with Erling Noakes in hot pursuit. Even as Sam drew breath to shout, Mr. Frodo tumbled an empty table into Noakes's path and darted around a corner. Sam didn't hesitate to follow, ducking between a pavilion and a booth into the next row, emerging just as Fal and Rowly rounded two separate corners nearby, apparently having been part of a planned ambush. Sure enough, Mr. Frodo weren't nowhere to be seen. Sam stepped back in to the shadows to listen. 

"He's a slippery one. Didn't Erling say he'd run him through here?" Fal shook his head in disgust. 

"That he did. And here he is now." Rowly cuffed Erling's shoulder. "Where have you been, having second breakfast?" 

"He pushed a table in front of me," Erling scowled. "Didn't you catch him as he run through?" 

"He never run past me." Rowly shook his head, and Fal echoed him. 

"Nor me, neither." 

"Well, he didn't just vanish into thin air!" Erling flung out his hands as if to demonstrate. 

"I'll warrant he did," Rowly spat on to the green. "Just now and half a dozen more times today when we've had him dead to rights. I'm done with it, lads. It ain't natural!" 

Sam smiled a little to himself. At least he weren't the only fool here, and that was saying summat. He fidgeted, wanting them to be gone so he could check the tents. When they finally stalked off, he slipped out and started shifting flaps, peering into every crevice he could find-- but it weren't no use; they were all as empty as could be. 

"Looking for someone?" Mr. Frodo's voice whispered at his ear, and Sam whirled to find his master standing just outside arm's reach, bouncing on his heels. 

"Aye." Sam took a step, rounding himself to face Mr. Frodo square, slow and careful. "There's a hare I've a mind to catch." 

"Did you have a good talk with Rosie?" Frodo's smirk turned positively wicked, and Sam blushed, for all he didn't have nothing to be ashamed of. 

"Not near as good a one as I'll be having with you, come tomorrow," he promised with deliberate cheek, forcing down a pang of guilt and taking a single step forward. Frodo stepped back, pacing him carefully, a little smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. Sam took another step, judging his chances; there was a bit of rope not five ells behind Mr. Frodo, tied to a stake and holding up the front awning of a tent. If he could keep Mr. Frodo's attention diverted, he might just back him over it and then take the chance to spring. "I see the Noakes boys haven't caught you yet. You've got them all of a dither, if I may say." He took another step, but Frodo glided back, light as a dancer, keeping the distance between them. 

"Three against one isn't fair," Frodo laughed softly, and took another step back. He stepped over the rope just as light as you please, never even looking for it, and Sam grinned, wry. 

"One against one ain't hardly fair neither, not when one of the two is Mr. Frodo Baggins." 

Frodo inclined his head in gracious acknowledgment, eyes sparkling. "You've spent the whole day chasing everyone but me, Sam Gamgee. Doesn't your Gaffer say what's worth having is worth working for?" With that, he turned on his heel and fled. 

Sam threw dignity to the winds and leaped after, knowing that in a regular race Mr. Frodo would leave him winded at the post, but this was no regular race, what with the people getting in the way and all, and Mr. Frodo was at a disadvantage, having to break the path. He flung himself about the corner, spying his master's heels vanishing, and charged through the eddy of reveling hobbits in Mr. Frodo's wake down the main walk, ignoring the laughter and pointing fingers that followed. 

Mr. Frodo was caught in a swirl of people at the corner; half a dozen hobbits, Sam's Gaffer included, were carrying empty ale casks away to be loaded on to a waggon drawn up next to the dancing green; Mr. Frodo lost time by politely refusing to jostle them, and Sam all but caught him up, hastily touching his cap to his old dad as he raced past. 

"Samwise, mind your manners, you young ruffian!" Gaffer sputtered, whirling to watch the chase with his barrel still hoisted on his shoulder. Sam didn't have leisure to pay him no mind, pounding after Mr. Frodo as hard as he could go-- every now and again he could almost catch his master's coattail, if he tried, but he couldn't quite, and they wound back and forth through the whole length and breadth of the fair-- past Tom's laughing face and Rosie's flat-eyed stare, past Ted Sandyman's guffaws and his sisters' tittering. 

Sam was soon puffing, red in the face, and had a stitch in his side, but he kept running for all he was worth. Mr. Frodo was too close to give up on, and there were half a dozen other hounds who'd jumped in to follow in Sam's wake, ready to take up the chase if he abandoned it. 

But before Sam could blink, it was over: Mr. Frodo cut to the left when he should have gone right, and 'round the corner waited Erling and Rowly and Fal, all ranged out ready to pounce upon him, and Sam just behind, cutting off all hope of escape. The hounds all but bayed their excitement, and Sam pulled up sharp so as not to plow into his master, who had stopped, dithering between his choices. The hounds spread out, forming themselves into a ring around him, slowly drawing it tight. 

Mr. Frodo looked thoughtfully about the circle, a smile deepening on his face. He was plainly caught; all that remained was to see who had the cheek to lay hands on him first. 

Before Sam could muster up the resolve to put himself forward, Mr. Frodo's eyes fell to rest on him, sparkling with mirth, and he leaped, his weight striking Sam full in the chest and catching him unprepared. Sam flung up his hands out of instinct and found them full of lithe, squirming hobbit; Mr. Frodo's weight near toppled him, but he staggered and stood firm, and Mr. Frodo wrapped his arms and legs tight around Sam and hung on. 

"Hello," he said right into Sam's startled face, then his mouth descended on Sam's. 

Every trace of self-consciousness and indecision vanished from Sam's mind at once with the shock of it. Mr. Frodo's tongue, hot and bold, swept right into his mouth, ravishing him with a surge of lust that left him stiff inside his breeches. He made a low sound, half whimper and half-growl, and hitched Frodo up tight against him, kissing him back clumsily, but with growing determination, ignoring his aching arms. He spread his legs and bent back, taking more of Frodo's weight with his strong thighs, eyes squeezed shut tight as he lost himself in bliss and fire. 

His master's fierce, sweet mouth wandered, biting kisses across Sam's jaw and down his throat; Sam hissed and kneaded, hands filled with Frodo's narrow bottom. Then Frodo was chuckling, legs loosening, sliding down from their hold on Sam's waist. Sam released him with reluctance, easing him onto his feet. Mr. Frodo dropped a quick kiss onto Sam's nose and fumbled at his collar for a ribbon. 

Sam stood stunned, struggling to think of something to say and unable to do aught more than dither. Mr. Frodo unfastened the bit of ribbon, giving Sam a sly smile. Placing it in Sam's hand, he darted away-- past Tom Cotton, who stood aside to let him go. 

He shook his head at Sam, chiding him for waiting late. "It's almost middle-night," he chivvied the hares, rousing them from staring at Sam in a daze. "You'd best get back to the green."

 

Dazed, Sam stood still in spite of the warning, watching after his master as he departed, but without really seeing. Frodo's kiss still tingled on his lips, and he rubbed the bit of satiny ribbon-- harsh in comparison to Mr. Frodo's skin-- between his fingertips.

Sam couldn't fathom what had just happened, try as he might. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, his mind still insisted Mr. Frodo couldn't possibly want him. It must be a jest, or a game... perhaps he would catch Mr. Frodo in the chase, only for his master to laugh at him, or to turn awkward, not having expected to be caught by Samwise Gamgee, or worse, to turn haughty, and tell Sam to be off.

He bit his lip, staring down at the little bit of ribbon.

"Well, ye got what ye wanted. Have ye come to your senses, then?" His Gaffer's voice penetrated his reverie. "Or are ye too flustered and bebothered to know when it's time to stop?" The Gaffer stumped over, his cane digging little divots in the green.

Sam lifted his eyes to the Gaffer's, and saw sympathy there in spite of the gruff tone. "I don't know as it's time to stop, but I don't know as it isn't," he answered, truthful enough to make his cheeks burn.

"Ye should be chasin' the Cotton lass. But ye've put your foot in that, right enough. Now she's chasin' the master as she shouldn't be, and her feelings are hurt no matter which way the running goes." The Gaffer shook his head. "Well, 'twon't be the first time, and that's a fact. Better feelings be hurt than ye put a babe in the belly of a lass ye don't love."

Sam's cheeks flamed at the frank advice, and he closed the ribbon inside his fist. "It ain't that I'm not fond of Rosie." For he was, truth be told. He just... he wasn't ready for that sort of thing, and mightn't ever be, depending.

"Ye've just spent a lifetime tied in knots over that Mr. Frodo. Don't think I'm not noticin', and that he ain't noticin' neither." The Gaffer shook his head, wry, and pulled out his pipe. "I reckon he means to offer up a chance for ye to get a pleasant tumble and work this out of your system, Sam-lad, so mind ye don't go shamin' yourself after."

Shame flushed through Sam at his old dad's words anyhow, and a spark of anger kindled along with it. "Mr. Frodo ain't that sort."

"Ain't he?" Gaffer lowered his voice. "Well, mayhap ye know better than your old dad, but mayhap all your cheek's for naught, Samwise. Ye'll be seeing soon enough who's won ribbons from him this day, and it ain't just Rosie Cotton and Sam Gamgee." He tamped rough-cut leaf into the bowl of his pipe, then cast about for a straw or twig to light at a nearby torch.

Sam's chin firmed, stubborn; it seemed the Gaffer's statement of his own doubt had touched some buried thing in him and fired his courage. "Well, Dad, I suppose I knew that all along. And don't go worryin'. I'm not about to shame you none, nor Mr. Frodo neither. If I catch him it'll have to be done fair and square, I'll warrant. And if he don't want no more of it then or after, I'll abide by his decision. But if he does, then you'll have to be abiding by mine to give it to him, and that's flat."

The Gaffer's eyes went round; he stared at Sam for a moment over the filled bowl of his unlit pipe before they narrowed and then dropped to examine his pipe, frowning at it and turning it as though it was a new one he was deciding whether or not to buy.

"Don't hold your breath hoping for that, lad. Remember your place." The Gaffer pointed to Sam sternly with the stem, then stuck it between his teeth unlit.

"Aye; that's just what I'll do, and it's under the Party Tree right now, seemingly." Heart pounding and blood racing in his veins uncomfortably fast from the sheer cheek of offering such sauce to his old Dad, Sam turned resolutely and made his way towards the green.

He was hindered in reaching his goal by a steady stream of hobbits headed the other way. Most were mothers with babes in arms and children in tow. Some of the lads and lasses were old enough to know why they were being taken away to bed, and to act sullen about it.

Sullen or no, they went, as Sam himself had done in past years. A few among them, he knew, only gave the appearance of going. They'd be back after fooling their mothers into believing they'd gone to bed-- back, and hiding in the nearby hedgerows and haystacks hoping to have a look at what happened next. Most of them would be too late, Sam judged likely, though they had an outside chance of witnessing more in the morning.

The hares stood assembled in a loose, chattering knot on the northernmost end of the green, towards Overhill, and the hounds southward towards Hobbiton. To one side of the tree a walled pavilion had been set up, its sides fluttering weakly in the dew-heavy night breeze. Sam's heart picked up a beat at the sight of it, and his throat felt tight and his tongue too thick; he knew what it was for.

He made himself look away from it and caught a glimpse of Rosie slipping through the crowd to join the hounds. Her cheeks were red and her eyes looked puffy; her hair had bits of grass in it. Sam winced, his stomach lurching; she'd been off having a cry, that much was plain. Even worse, May Belle Stoneheaver had left her place in the flock, and was making a beeline for Sam across the narrow divide between the groups.

"I hear Mr. Frodo led you a merry chase, Samwise," she purred. Sam flushed, keenly aware of eyes resting on them. "But if you'd rather have a nice armful of buxom lass than a bony lad," her voice fell, sultry with invitation, "You're a fine sturdy lad, Sam, and I reckon you'll do. I want you to meet me up where the mill-race starts. Be there just when Borgil shines overhead, and I'll show you a proper good time."

Sam blinked at her, so shocked he could do naught but stammer. "M-may Belle!"

"Mind you don't leave me waiting, Sam." With a sultry flip of her skirts, May Belle returned to the hares and Sam scampered to join the relative safety of the milling hounds. He resisted the temptation to touch his cheeks, which felt flame-hot, what with the curious and amused looks her antics had drawn to him.

Sam flickered a worried glance towards Rosie, who hadn't missed a bit of the exchange, to look at the red spots of anger on her cheeks. Not that it would do her no good to get upset about May Belle; Sam had no more mind to chase her than he did to put his hand in the fire. He glanced away hastily, cheeks reddening, and scuffed his toe through the grass.

Daddy Sandheaver interrupted Sam's guilty foot-shifting, looking as spry and alert as he had in the early morn, no doubt the better for an afternoon nap.

"Let's be about it then!" he chivvied the lad at his side, giving him a clout on the shoulder when he hovered, too obviously solicitous. "Let go, you young lout! I ain't as old as all that. You hares and hounds, now." He raised his voice, a little thin and reedy, but a hush fell so that he could be heard. "The ribbons are won, and there's no more trading to be done. Hounds, you can chase any hare you've a mind to-- if you claimed a token! If you didn't, the hare's off limits, and never mind if she's your sweetheart. Or he," he coughed, frowning a little. "Here, lad, step up. The rest of you, in a line. No shoving, mind!"

Sam fell into the line about halfway down its length, gathering his tokens in his sweaty hand. Rose stood half a dozen paces behind him, her hand closed around her prizes-- her chin was set hard and she looked neither left nor right. Sam avoided her eyes Daddy Twofoot read the names aloud off the first lad's ribbons as the line straggled forward-- proud of knowing his letters, it was plain.

"Esmerelda Bolger. Pansy Burrowes. Araminta Weaver..." as each name rang out, a lass answered "aye," confirming the gift of the token. Their voices varied from shy and trembling to brass-bold.

"Lily Gravel. Pansy Meadowes. Frodo Baggins."

Sam started, eyes snapping up; Frodo's calm "aye" confirmed the token. The lad standing at the head of the line was Marco Cotton, one of Sam's own cousins. He was a pleasant roundfaced fellow with a shock of thick brown hair that flamed with red under the Sun and a thick scatter of freckles across his nose, and Sam had always thought him too shy to speak to a stranger, even now that he was nearly grown.

"Down with them hackles, Sam Gamgee," a lad murmured in his ear. "Or you'll fright the freckles off Marco's face, and that's a fact!"

Sam made himself look away, but he felt the tension settle in is shoulders, refusing to be so easily dismissed. It might be the first, but likely it weren't the last.

His guess was right; by the time he'd reached the front of the line, Mr. Frodo's name had been called another three times, and each time met by his calm acknowledgement of a token granted. Two of his tokens were held by girls as had joined the hounds, and they stood together smiling smugly at Frodo, visions of Bag End dancing in their eyes so plain they might as well have had it writ on their foreheads.

Sam stepped up and handed over his modest collection, ears going red as Daddy Sandheaver read the names. "Frodo Baggins. Ivy Hayfield. May Belle Stoneheaver." Sam could fair feel Rosie's eyes boring into his nape, sharp as gimlets, but all he could hear was Frodo's voice, calm and warm, acknowledging Sam's token with the same unstudied grace as he might have used to thank Sam for a cup of tea.

After that, it seemed the rest of the line took no time at all, though he did pay a bit of mind to Rosie's turn at its head, and found she'd not only caught Frodo, but two lasses as well. She didn't look none to happy about it, but she tossed her curls and gave Sam a defiant glare before joining the waiting hounds who milled about under the Tree, waiting for the next part of the chase to begin.

Finally the accounting was done, with only a few dissenting tokens to be reclaimed from their owners, and Daddy Sandheaver looked about, clearing his throat and waiting for a lull. "This bit o' the chase we'll do proper, like in days gone, though ye don't need me to tell it to ye, I'll warrant!" He chuckled, gleeful, and the hares murmured and blushed. Mr. Frodo just stood with his hands in his pockets, a his expression sober, attentive, and perfectly composed. He'd given away seven tokens, all told, or else Sam missed his count. Worse, lads held no less than four of them.

"In the tent with ye, and don't ye come out till ye strip down as bare as ye were born!" Daddy Sandheaver shooed at the hares, flapping his palms, and they vanished behind the flap, nervous tittering muffled by the heavy canvas.

Mr. Frodo went inside the tent with them, for all he was a lad, and Sam heard more than a few chuckles at the sight. "Now there's a lucky lad, and mayhap this was what he's been after all day," Hob Brockhouse murmured at Sam's ear. Sam ignored him, sidling towards the tent where the hounds had begun to mass, jockeying for position.

"Stand back there, back now!" Daddy Sandheaver reached for his cane and swung it about, clouting a few of the over-eager hounds until they fell back behind a line of his choosing. "Don't be falling on them as soon as they leave the tent! That's not how it's done. Chase them fair, or not at all!"

A gust of soft, cool breeze caught the flap of the tent and lifted it partway, causing a fluttering shriek from inside and a rumble of appreciation from without; Sam's cheeks burned at the glimpse of bare thigh and rounded breast he'd caught before it fell, and thought suddenly of Rosie, guilt and heat mingling at the memory of her sweet slick flesh burning hot against his hand. His body tightened. It wouldn't be easy to run in such a state-- and mayhap, the hares were counting on it.

"Make yourselves ready!" Daddy Sandheaver thumped the canvas with his stick. "Don't be all night about it."

After a further few minutes, the clamor in the tent stilled; it seemed everyone in the field stopped breathing to wait, eyes resting on the tent. "Well, go ahead," a girl's voice called, and Daddy Sandheaver reached and pulled back the flap. Hands flew to help him, and soon both flaps of the pavilion tent were hooked to poles at either side of its mouth, revealing the hares within: every one without so much as a stitch on. Everywhere he looked, acres of pale skin-- nipples and navels and soft curly triangles. And....

Sam's throat closed. Ivory pale, Mr. Frodo stood calm, perhaps with just the faintest hue of a pink flush on his cheeks. His narrow body was sleek and slim, not padded with luscious curves like the girls, but below his hipbones, there lay--

"Go!" Daddy Sandheaver yelped, swinging his arms, and the tent erupted in a seething mass of arms and legs as the hares bolted forth, streaming past the waiting hounds into the night. Sam almost fell, buffeted on every side by the equally urgent press of the hounds bolting after them; blinking, he realized he would be left, so he put down his head and ran.

 

The press of hounds fell apart rapidly upon reaching the lane. Squinting ahead, Sam could see their shadowed figures scattering in every direction across the countryside, each in pursuit of a ghostly pale figure-- doubtless a lass, her pale skin flashing in the moonlight. There was no sign of Frodo, and Sam cursed himself for a ninnyhammer; he should have set his eyes on Frodo from the first, and never let him out of his sight. 

Sam cut to the side of the Road, letting the last of the hounds pass. He needed a minute to think, so he leaned against the Noakes's sturdy rail fence to catch his breath and let his pounding heart slow. The pattering of the other hobbits' feet quickly subsided, leaving only the rustle of the freshening breeze. Automatically Sam looked up, scanning the sky. The stars were bright overhead, but the horizon was dark steel grey where clouds had risen in the west, blotting them out.

Sam climbed the fence and trotted across the yard, pulling himself atop the low rise of the smial using double-handfuls of the dew-slick grass. 

There was a heavy, damp scent in the air, which flowed wet and cool across Sam's face. Now that he was above the level of the hedge, Sam could see the sky clearly in all directions. The pale light of the Moon revealed clouds massing off towards faraway Michel Delving, their towering billows glowing faint silver-white. A blue flare lit one of them from the inside, and Sam waited, counting, until the low growl of thunder finally muttered across the land. The storm was still a tidy few leagues away, and might yet pass without bringing rain to Hobbiton, but Sam didn't give much for the odds of that happening. 

He needed to find Frodo and find him quick, before the storm hit and washed away any signs of a trail. Sam bit his lip and turned a slow circle atop the smial, looking out across the fields. He could see a few running figures: pale hares and darker hounds seething over the countryside like a nest of ants some hobbit lad had kicked. 

Sam shook his head and started forth. Time was wasting. 

He half-slithered, half-slid down into the yard and hopped the fence into the lane, thinking hard. Now, Mr. Frodo, he acted like he wanted to be caught-- and by Sam, to boot. But then Sam went and lost him, like a ninnyhammer. So what would Frodo do? Well, if he wanted to be caught by the likes of a Gamgee, he'd go where nobody but Sam would think to try and find him. 

Sam began to trot along the lane, mapping the Hobbiton area as quick as he might and ticking off each place near as soon as he thought of it. Mr. Frodo wouldn't go poking about nobody's barn loft, nor in a tool shed nor a byre. And haystacks weren't private enough; any hobbit might find him there. The same went for the mill-race or any other common spot Sam could call to mind.

No, Sam reckoned Mr. Frodo would go would be some place on his own land, but where? Up by the orchards, or down next to the springhouse? Neither of those seemed right enough to Sam's thinking, but he let the Road lead his feet towards Bag End nonetheless, slowing a bit as it steepened, taking a moment to peer behind a stone wall here or into a covert there.

Light flickered on the horizon, enough to show the covert empty, and Sam let the grasses fall back, moving himself along, still trying to think and coming up empty. He was just passing the gate of the smial when a fat toad hopped out onto the Road in front of him, the soft plop of its bottom almost lost in a growl of thunder that crept across the land, rumbling a muted warning. 

Sam looked at the toad hopping away from the ditch and up on to higher ground, then stared up to the sky again-- the stars had all vanished while he wandered along. He hurried his steps, reckoning to check Mr. Frodo's favorite reading tree and then get himself off the Hill, for the lightning was apt to strike an unwary hobbit who lingered in a high place. 

There would be wet hares and wetter hounds before the dawn, and that's all there was to it. A body with half a pennyweight of sense would get himself under cover while he still could, and no mistake.

Sam blinked and his feet slowed; he came to a dead halt in the middle of the Road just as if the lightning had already found him. Bagginses weren't no fools, and Mr. Frodo knew about the lightning just as well as Sam did. He wouldn't be under no tree, set to catch the lightning. No, the master had considerably more than a pennyweight of good hobbit sense, and he'd find himself a place inside....

Sam swallowed hard, turning back to look towards the crest of the Hill again, where a flicker of lightning caught the fence, setting a stark shadow behind it. The thunder came quicker this time, and louder too, and on its heels followed the wind. All around Sam the trees rustled, and the leaves turned their silver bellies towards the storm while he dithered. 

"It ain't your place to try such a hunch, and you won't do it," Sam said slowly, scolding himself, but it was a lie and he knew that already. 

Mistress Lobelia, now, she'd have a proper name for such as he was thinking. He could still feel the clout she gave him when she found him playing at marbles under her waggon in the Highday market. He'd just been a lad, out on his own at the market for all but the first time.

"You audacious little cur," she'd called him, and he'd run crying from her well-swung umbrella till he ran right into Mr. Bilbo's velvet breeches and found his safe haven behind them while Mr. Bilbo faced that haughty Lobelia down just like she wasn't the worst nightmare any hobbit ever dreamed of. That taught Sam to believe in those tales about Mr. Bilbo facing down a dragon, no matter what Ted Sandyman said otherwise, because he'd seen such bravery with his own eyes, now hadn't he?

He hadn't known what she meant, though, until he asked Frodo years later and they laughed about it, heads together as they lay on the rug next to Mr. Frodo's bed, one snowy winter's morn, turning the pages of a book together. The book was full of swords and dragons, and Sam felt properly audacious to be sharing such company, even though he wasn't no cur, no matter that he wasn't Baggins born and bred.

Sam took a deep breath; his feet had brought him back to the gate, and his hand had lifted the latch. It swung inward quiet as might be, having been oiled by his own hand. One thing was certain: he didn't know of no other place that Mr. Frodo might go where no other hobbit in the chase would ever dare follow.

Well, he didn't have no other guess, and if he was getting above his place, no doubt he'd learn the better of it. Sam caught his breath and stole across the yard, hesitating with his hand on the knob. A new crack of thunder pushed him past the threshold, and he shut the last of it out hastily, then put his back against the door and looked about the smial, his heart pounding louder than the thunder now that he'd let himself inside, as he shouldn't.

He bit his lip and made himself step forward; the pale watery light from the windows let him see just enough to avoid the piles and stacks of parchment and whatnot scattered about the walls as he found the hall and crept deeper into the hole. He let the fingertips of one hand trail against the wall so he could count the doors and know which one was Frodo's. As the dark closed in around his ears he stumbled on the edge of a throw-rug and nearly fell, then floundered until his hands found a hold on the wall-beam. He stood still until he found his bearings, realizing the next door was his master's.

Soon he'd know if he'd guessed aright.

Sam found the door and fumbled for the knob, heart in his throat. Another crackle of thunder shuddered its way in to the smial, making his skin prickle with tension. He faltered, second-guessing himself, but decided at length it would be better to throw open the door and find Mr. Frodo's room empty, so he could get out before Mr. Frodo gave up the chase and come home to find Sam lurking inside without no right to be here.

He pushed the door inwards, and it gave a low groan that told the hinges needed oiling. Sam made a note of it automatically even as he stepped in to the room, quiet as a mouse, and lifted his gaze to the bed--

And to his master, who lay on the coverlet, on his side with one knee drawn up and his head supported on his hand. The window-curtains stood open. Lightning played in the circle of sky they revealed, chasing fleeting shadows and stark white across Frodo's hip and thigh, carving hills and valleys along his ribs and his shoulder, catching blue frost in his hair. His eyes were lost in shadow, and he lay very still, watching Sam.

Sam's throat went dry and his head spun; his cock surged itself taut inside his breeches. He swayed dizzily for half a moment, then steadied himself, reaching out to the wardrobe that stood by the door and feeling the cold silky wood hard against his palm.

"I reckon I found you." His voice sounded hoarse, thick and husky in his throat. "Fair and square."

Frodo moved to lie down in answer, stretching out along the bed with his belly down and his head turned towards Sam, the brush of skin on skin loud in the still air, his thighs white in the dim light from the window. "You did," his voice sounded husky too. "I'm yours for the night."

This wasn't a field, and as such it wasn't quite proper, but at the moment Sam didn't care for such niggling matters. He was swollen so hard his breeches creaked when he took a step forward; he was that dithered he couldn't think to be shy. Frodo slid to the edge of the mattress and reached for him, fingers trailing across the placket of his breeches, barely able to touch, but when Sam stepped again they curled into the waistband and quickly found the buttons. His shaft pushed its own way out, filling and standing up proud to tangle with his shirt-tail; his third step let his trousers drop and Frodo's hands slid around his hips and his mouth found Sam and pulled him forward, then drew him in.

Sam's head fell back and his mouth fell open; his eyes clenched shut tight but he could still see the flicker of red through his closed lids as lightning split the sky and thunder rolled, drowning Sam's shout, shaking the room and rattling the picture frames on the walls. Instinct claimed Sam and his hands knotted in Frodo's hair, pulling his master towards him even as his hips pressed forward.

Frodo took him easily, swallowing hard, mouth coming alive around Sam in a wet, tight frenzy of suckling. He rippled his tongue under Sam's cock and fluttered it around him as he let Sam slide out of his mouth, then slicked the tip before opening to let it in again. Sam keened, a wail that was lost in another crash of thunder, blinding him to all but the wicked knowledge of Frodo's mouth devouring him alive. Up and down it moved, fast and sure, clasping tight and sucking hard, until its hot slick motion broke Sam, so that he spent his pleasure even as the clouds burst and the rain hissed with a sound down like a kettle boiling over into burning coals.

His knees buckled and he fell to the rug, trembling hand bracing on the bed, barely keeping him from falling on his face.

Frodo straightened, wiping stray droplets of pearl from his face and breathing hard. Sam didn't move-- couldn't move-- as Frodo lifted himself from the bed, graceful limbs and pale belly catching the light from the storm, which caught his motion in quick, stuttered glimpses as he moved around Sam and knelt behind him. His hand was wet when it touched Sam's mouth, his fingers slicking a path that traced Sam's lips and then pressed inside.

Sam opened blindly, feeling their unfamiliar salty presence on his tongue-- wet with his own taste, thick and bitter on Frodo's fingers. They opened his mouth and pressed inside even as Frodo pressed up against him, hard cock finding a nest against Sam's cleft, and his other hand played for a moment on the bed-table, then reached low. Frodo's finger pushed in to Sam, and he writhed, caught and vulnerable, moaning as it moved and twisted, turning and seeking, until it was satisfied and withdrew. He could not resist, boneless and still quivering, as Frodo pressed a second finger inside, opening him. 

Frodo thrust slowly, burying his fingers until the knuckles of his fist rested firmly against Sam's skin, the bulk of his two fingers slick and commanding inside Sam, who felt himself open for them like butter yielding to a knife. His pleasure-soaked muscles gave way easily. Frodo worked his fingers in and out, slow measured thrusts to ease the way. Helpless, Sam licked and sucked at his own taste on Frodo's fingers in his mouth. A moan choked in his throat as Frodo withdrew his hand and positioned Sam's thighs, spreading them wide. Then with a deft motion of his hips Frodo found what he sought, and Sam felt him push himself inside. 

Sam whimpered around Frodo's fingers, his body struggling to adapt, held firm and opened and filled from both ends at once. Frodo's teeth closed on his throat, nipping lightly, a sting that shifted and burned its way down along the tendon to the joint of neck and shoulder, then sank deep and worried there as Frodo overcame the last resistance of Sam's body and began to thrust, slow and hard. His fingers moved on Sam's tongue in lazy counterpoint, urging, and Sam suckled them, giving himself up, his breastbone coming to rest against the mattress, which steadied him. Frodo leaned forward, pushing Sam's head back across his shoulder, and bit at the angle of Sam's jaw, his breath hissing through his nostrils and past his lips in between the fierce, flaring bites.

The thunder rolled, vibrating deep into Sam's frame, and he closed his own teeth on Frodo's fingers. In response, his master sank deeper, thrusts speeding, friction beginning to build and burn between them. The rain beat on the glass panes of the window unheeded, and lightning danced unseen; red-hot pulses and explosions flared and died behind Sam's lids and his own cries filled his ears, shrill and desperate. He pushed back against Frodo's thrusts, struggling, and Frodo's fist curled around him, sharp quick tugs working his shaft. He hardened again in spite of himself, sensation sizzling through him, dancing and crackling over his skin.

Then Frodo tensed, fingers curling on Sam's tongue, the clasp of his hand tightening painfully, and his lean body jerked hard, quivering against Sam, teeth sinking in Sam's earlobe hard enough to make Sam yelp and struggle, but he was caught and held until the spasm eased and Frodo collapsed against his back, gasping for breath.

They sank onto the rug together, exhausted, Frodo burying his nose in the curls above Sam's nape. His hand reached across Sam to twist in the coverlet and blankets on the bed, dragging them down, and sleepily Sam moved to roll up in them with him. This was his second night of sleeping away from his own bed, and in the aftermath of pleasure, his lids did not want to stay open.

He struggled against weariness, blinking into Frodo's eyes-- luminous in a flicker of lightning, gleaming in his pale face. "Frodo," he heard the word slur with his exhaustion.

"Sleep," his master told him, soft and warm, lips brushing across Sam's. "We've all the time we could ever want."


	3. Frodo/Sam, Sam/Rosie, Frodo/Sam/Rosie (FINISHED)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo/Sam, Sam/Rosie, Frodo/Sam/Rosie (finished!)

"You're a fool, Sam Gamgee, and I've said so afore now. You haven't the brass or the wit to catch him either one, but if you can't have him you'll have naught at all, won't you? Stubborn and hard-headed, that's what you are, and you've no more idea where he's spent half the afternoon hiding away than you do of how to catch him, for all your bold talk. But I do." She sat down in Frodo's vacated place, lowering her voice. "Come away with me, Sam, and I'll tell you." 

"And what would you be wanting me to come away with you for?" he asked warily, eyes narrowing at her. She just looked at him, raising a brow, and Sam flushed. "Now, Rosie, that ain't proper and you know it." 

"You'll not find a better offer." She stared him straight in the eye. "You'd best take it, or I'll be offering the same to Erling Noakes before this bench grows cold, Sam Gamgee!" 

"Do that and I'll be telling your mother and your da besides!" Sam sputtered back in a hiss, indignant and more than a bit flustered by the hot rush of jealousy in his breast. "Now see here, Rosie Cotton, you ain't just bargaining for cabbages at the farthing fair!" 

Her lip trembled and her eyes filled in spite of her steady gaze; Sam rubbed his palm over his face in despair. 

"O very well, but no more'n what we did this morning. You're too young to carry a babe," he muttered, defeated. 

She nodded sharply, satisfied. "That's settled, then. It ain't long till nightfall, Sam. Meet me by the baking ovens as soon as it's good and dark." She got up and flounced away; Sam groaned to himself and put down his spoon, for he couldn't stomach any more of the stew. At this rate, he'd have to marry Rosie for sure, whether he caught Frodo or no! 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Full dark came much too fast to suit Sam, but a bargain was a bargain, and he couldn't harden his heart against the memory of those tears in Rosie's eyes-- or her promise not to run tomorrow, neither, so he showed up on the windward side of the baking ovens, as promised. A bit of breeze had sprung up as the Sun went down, washing the smoke back through the hedge and off across the land, making this a more pleasant area for almost all, but now that it was cooling down, the bakers had redoubled their efforts, readying for the morning. 

Rosie soon emerged from the crowd, looking pleased with herself, and Sam squirmed as she took his hand and tugged him away. He was half-fearful and half-aroused, and kept looking around, quite self-conscious and sure that all who passed knew what they were doing. But none seemed to care as Rosie dragged him around the edge of a booth, then slipped behind the canvas door flap which hung suspended to let hobbits pass in and out. 

Immediately they were alone, though completely surrounded by chattering, busy hobbits-- the tents had been put next to one another, but not touching. A narrow strip of unused grass lay between. Lanterns inside each tent and booth sent shadows looming and reeling on the canvas, and Sam abruptly understood the nature of the hiding places he'd foolishly been ignorant of throughout the long afternoon. 

Rosie turned to him, smiling, and he swallowed, wishing he could bolt away, but she was stepping near, running her hands along his chest and up behind his neck, lifting her mouth, and there wasn't anything for it but to kiss her. 

She was a pleasant enough armful, breasts soft against Sam's chest, mouth hot and bold, her tongue darting in to touch Sam's. He kissed her, helpless, hands hesitantly coming to rest on her back. 

"That's better now, Sam," she purred, and he had to admit-- it was. He'd been kissing lasses all day, and was starting to get a bit of experience at it. It weren't the sort of thing a lad minded, not even if he did have his sights set on catching the Master of the Hill. 

Rosie tugged Sam down to the grass, and before he knew it he was stretched out along her side, kissing her over and over. Her mouth opened hot and yielding to him, a sultry song tempting him to forget his plans and just stay here instead. She'd put her hand inside his shirt, and her skin was warm, and she ebbed and surged against him eagerly in rhythm with her kisses. His body remembered the way it had begun the morning, seemingly, straining for her so urgent she couldn't but notice. And notice she did, pushing him over on his back and climbing atop him, her heat against his breeches through her soft cotton drawers. 

Sam pushed up against her before he could think not to, and she smiled, her look soft and heated, then reached up and tugged the ends of the bow at her bodice-- and her generous breasts, confined tightly inside, made the lace hiss through its eyes as they spilled forth, escaping their prison. He couldn't think whether her nipples were more pink than brown, but there they were, only inches from his eyes. 

She leaned forward, wriggling urgently on him, and Sam mouthed like a babe, reveling in soft hot skin that yielded sweetly to his callused brown fingers and tasted like salt against his tongue. She gasped as he suckled, her arms curving behind his head and holding him against her. 

"This ain't what we agreed on," he managed to gasp, but couldn't stop his hips pushing against her. He was so hard he couldn't think how to save himself. 

"It ain't," she agreed readily, and stood up, moving her soft breasts out of range of both his mouth and hands, which didn't think too much of him for protesting-- but then forgave him as she hastily pulled up her skirts and stepped out of her drawers, leaving them on the grass. "Those breeches must be right uncomfortable, Sam." Letting her skirts drop, she knelt and started in working his buttons. Sam struggled feebly, but she was right, and his heart weren't in it-- it weren't listening to his mind, nohow, but to parts southwards. 

"Let me see..." she batted his hands away, voice a purr. "Oh, my, Sam, now this is something like." 

He let his head fall back in defeat as her fingers closed around him, drawing him forth. "Rosie Cotton, you're no lady." He licked his lips, feeling sweat break out on him where there weren't none just a moment ago. 

"That don't trouble me in the least," she said tartly, and didn't let go of him, neither. "For you're no gentleman, shaming me as you have, Samwise Gamgee!" Her hand moved, and that robbed both the words off his tongue and the breath from his lungs that he would have used to speed them on their way. "Any other lad would've had me on my back in the haystack before I knew what he was about, but not you, oh no." She stroked him harder, her eyes fair snapping with annoyance. "I've got to do every little thing for you, and if that don't mean we're fated to be husband and wife one day, I don't know what does." Somehow she managed to muster quite a lot of dignity even with her breasts hanging free of her frock and her hand wrapped around his hard shaft, moving with vigorous purpose. 

Sam was hard as he could be now, aching something fierce, so when she dropped him he gave a little bleat in spite of himself, levering up on his elbows. "What are you stopping for?" 

"To teach you sense," she shook her head, and the rest of her shook too, so much he couldn't think. "Samwise, there are days when I think you can't see your own nose in front of your face. It's a good thing I've got enough sense for the both of us." She propped herself up, leaning against one of the tent poles, which was set firmly into a hold in the turf, and parted her knees, drawing up her skirt. "You said you'd touch me like you did this morning, so be about it." 

Sam swallowed hard, eyes fixed on her, no more able to look away than he was to argue. He reached slowly, one hand settling on the pale inside of her thigh, brown against her smooth skin. He wanted her hands on him again so badly he shook. The area between her thighs was lost in shadow, but he remembered its slick softness, and his hand inched towards it, driven by the hunger of his aching. 

"Do for me, that's it, and I'll take you in my mouth to finish you off," she offered, a husky purr. 

"I don't know where you learned such things." Sam found he couldn't lift his treacherous hand, the fingers of which had found her curls. 

"That's my business," she told him primly. "Your business is to be glad you've got a girl who would do such for you; many of them won't, as you ought to know if you didn't spend all your nights mooning after Himself up on the Hill instead of waiting for him in the rushes by the pond and giving him a tumble!" She turned a sly glance on Sam. "It works, you may want to know." 

"Rosie Cotton!" Sam stared at her, jaw fallen near to his breast. "Surely you wouldn't!" 

"That's my business again," she told him, but she looked smug, and Sam didn't know whether to worry at the matter like a dog with a bone or give in and touch her. She decided it for him, scooting forward and lifting her skirts over his arm. 

He all but forgot the questions that burned urgently on his tongue the moment she settled her body on his hand-- she was wet and near to burned him with her heat, her flesh welcoming his fingertips, parting easily. He touched, pressing experimentally, and found his two first fingers could sink in to her most all the way to the last knuckle. His very ears burned at the low moan she made and the sensation of her body clutching tightly around his fingers. His whole skin vibrated, the part of him she'd exposed to the air wanting desperately to be covered again-- covered by her flesh and buried in it as his hand was now. 

"Your thumb, Sam." Her voice quavered, and her hands showed him the way, settling it over a tight hot little bud at the center of her, soft as a rose-petal. He pressed and she moaned low in her throat and writhed, so he obliged her, watching her hands as she pinched her nipples and arched her body, moving herself around his fingers. Her mouth fell open, lips wet, and she made soft little cries as he learned the skill of what he was doing, watching her with growing fascination. Her thighs strained, muscles tense and taut as she lifted her body against his hand, her flat belly quivering. 

It might not be such a bad thing to be married to her after all; it would mean he could bury himself in her without fear or regret and watch her face right under his, her eyes glazed and her lips wet and trembling... he could suckle at her salty-sweet nipples every night, have her mouth on him like she promised, and none could say him no.... She was lovely like this, hair tumbled and skin gleaming with sweat. She was right; she wouldn't be any shrinking lily in his bed. Not in the least. He could just see her, mounted on him and riding hard, her breasts bouncing with the force of his thrusts.... 

Sam moaned aloud at the thought of it, and her eyes caught his for a moment, dancing with triumph at his expression, and she reached to take him in hand, curling her little fist around him tight and stroking him hard in just the same rhythm he was giving her. Her whole body was quivering now, slick with sweat and musky with heat, and her hand clutched him erratically as she shuddered. Her eyes flew open wide, and she let out a low keening wail, loud enough he was certain someone in the tents had to have heard them; her hand stilled and her body clenched around him. She shook, limbs convulsing, her head thrashing from side to side with such force it near terrified Sam before she subsided at last, panting. 

She lay there for a moment, struggling to catch her breath, and Sam just stared at her, startled and uncertain, never having seen such a thing before. At last she moved, sultry like her bones had all turned to water, and looked up at him smiling, then rolled to her side and put her mouth on him, her hair tumbling over his lap, a few sweaty curls clinging to her neck and breasts. 

Sam bit his arm so as not to scream; the shock of her warm wet mouth instantly did away with the fear that had made his shaft sag. It leaped to attention, nudging at the back of her throat. She merely shifted so that it sank in till his balls touched her chin, and her cheeks hollowed, producing a sensation that set his spine afire like a bolt of lightning had crashed down atop his head. The lightning-fire crackled down his spine and curled around his balls and he simply exploded, erupting right in her mouth with a strangled shout. 

When he came to his senses, he was holding her right where she was with both fists knotted in her hair, and she was licking her lips, looking up at him through her lashes with a wicked smile of triumph. "There's plenty more where that came from, Sam." She bent her head and licked along his spent shaft, which still quivered with aftershock and twitched with almost painful, weary eagerness at the reminder. She breathed on it, a cool tickle. "Have your fun with Mr. Frodo tomorrow, for I daresay you can find him now that I've let you in on his secret, but you'd best have a care I don't catch him first." 

She got up, tucking her breasts back into her bodice, doing up the laces with her tongue caught between her teeth. Last of all she stepped into her drawers and pulled them up, arranging her skirts primly over all. She ran her fingers through her hair, tidying it as much as she could, and then stepped back through the flap and in to the party, leaving Sam to lie there stunned, the grass prickly behind his back and his nether parts exposed for all the stars above to see. 

Sam eventually stirred, tending to himself with shaky fingers. The party went on, unabated, and the wheeling of the stars reminded him that he had only limited time left before middle-night. When he finally judged he didn't look like he'd just been knocked over by a waggon and team, he sneaked out and went in search of water, finding a bucket and washing the scent of Rosie off his hands. 

This time as he passed through the rows of tents and small pavilions, he knew what to look for, and saw several likely spots where the walls didn't quite come together proper. The one he and Rosie had used looked to be the largest of them-- most were considerably smaller, the tents' owners making better use of the field's limited space. Knowing Mr. Frodo, he'd use one as folks were hardly like to find. 

Even as the thought struck him, Mr. Frodo flashed before him, running hard with Erling Noakes in hot pursuit. Even as Sam drew breath to shout, Mr. Frodo tumbled an empty table into Noakes's path and darted around a corner. Sam didn't hesitate to follow, ducking between a pavilion and a booth into the next row, emerging just as Fal and Rowly rounded two separate corners nearby, apparently having been part of a planned ambush. Sure enough, Mr. Frodo weren't nowhere to be seen. Sam stepped back in to the shadows to listen. 

"He's a slippery one. Didn't Erling say he'd run him through here?" Fal shook his head in disgust. 

"That he did. And here he is now." Rowly cuffed Erling's shoulder. "Where have you been, having second breakfast?" 

"He pushed a table in front of me," Erling scowled. "Didn't you catch him as he run through?" 

"He never run past me." Rowly shook his head, and Fal echoed him. 

"Nor me, neither." 

"Well, he didn't just vanish into thin air!" Erling flung out his hands as if to demonstrate. 

"I'll warrant he did," Rowly spat on to the green. "Just now and half a dozen more times today when we've had him dead to rights. I'm done with it, lads. It ain't natural!" 

Sam smiled a little to himself. At least he weren't the only fool here, and that was saying summat. He fidgeted, wanting them to be gone so he could check the tents. When they finally stalked off, he slipped out and started shifting flaps, peering into every crevice he could find-- but it weren't no use; they were all as empty as could be. 

"Looking for someone?" Mr. Frodo's voice whispered at his ear, and Sam whirled to find his master standing just outside arm's reach, bouncing on his heels. 

"Aye." Sam took a step, rounding himself to face Mr. Frodo square, slow and careful. "There's a hare I've a mind to catch." 

"Did you have a good talk with Rosie?" Frodo's smirk turned positively wicked, and Sam blushed hot. 

"Not as good a one as I'll be having with you, come tomorrow," he promised with deliberate cheek, taking a single step forward. Frodo stepped back, pacing him carefully, a little smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. Sam took another step, judging his chances; there was a bit of rope not five ells behind Mr. Frodo, tied to a stake and holding up the front awning of a tent. If he could keep Mr. Frodo's attention diverted, he might just back him over it and then take the chance to spring. "I see the Noakes boys haven't caught you yet. You've got them all of a dither, if I may say." He took another step, but Frodo glided back, light as a dancer, keeping the distance between them. 

"Three against one isn't fair," Frodo laughed softly, and took another step back. He stepped over the rope just as light as you please, never even looking for it, and Sam grinned, wry. 

"One against one ain't hardly fair neither, not when one of the two is Mr. Frodo Baggins." 

Frodo inclined his head in gracious acknowledgment, eyes sparkling. "You've spent the whole day chasing everyone but me, Sam Gamgee. Doesn't your Gaffer say what's worth having is worth working for?" With that, he turned on his heel and fled. 

Sam threw dignity to the winds and leaped after, knowing that in a regular race Mr. Frodo would leave him winded at the post, but this was no regular race, what with the people getting in the way and all, and Mr. Frodo was at a disadvantage, having to break the path. He flung himself about the corner, spying his master's heels vanishing, and charged through the eddy of reveling hobbits in Mr. Frodo's wake down the main walk, ignoring the laughter and pointing fingers that followed. 

Mr. Frodo was caught in a swirl of people at the corner; half a dozen hobbits, Sam's Gaffer included, were carrying empty ale casks away to be loaded on to a waggon drawn up next to the dancing green; Mr. Frodo lost time by politely refusing to jostle them, and Sam all but caught him up, hastily touching his cap to his old dad as he raced past. 

"Samwise, mind your manners, you young ruffian!" Gaffer sputtered, whirling to watch the chase with his barrel still hoisted on his shoulder. Sam didn't have leisure to pay him no mind, pounding after Mr. Frodo as hard as he could go-- every now and again he could almost catch his master's coattail, if he tried, but he couldn't quite, and they wound back and forth through the whole length and breadth of the fair-- past Tom's laughing face and Rosie's flat-eyed stare, past Ted Sandyman's guffaws and his sisters' tittering. 

Sam was soon puffing, red in the face, and had a stitch in his side, but he kept running for all he was worth. Mr. Frodo was too close to give up on, and there were half a dozen other hounds who'd jumped in to follow in Sam's wake, ready to take up the chase if he abandoned it. 

But before Sam could blink, it was over: Mr. Frodo cut to the left when he should have gone right, and 'round the corner waited Erling and Rowly and Fal, all ranged out ready to pounce upon him, and Sam just behind, cutting off all hope of escape. The hounds all but bayed their excitement, and Sam pulled up sharp so as not to plow into his master, who had stopped, dithering between his choices. The hounds spread out, forming themselves into a ring around him, slowly drawing it tight. 

Mr. Frodo looked thoughtfully about the circle, a smile deepening on his face. He was plainly caught; all that remained was to see who had the cheek to lay hands on him first. 

Before Sam could muster up the resolve to put himself forward, Mr. Frodo's eyes fell to rest on him, sparkling with mirth, and he leaped, his weight striking Sam full in the chest and catching him unprepared. Sam flung up his hands out of instinct and found them full of lithe, squirming hobbit; Mr. Frodo's weight near toppled him, but he staggered and stood firm, and Mr. Frodo wrapped his arms and legs tight around Sam and hung on. 

"Hello," he said right into Sam's startled face, then his mouth descended on Sam's. 

Every trace of self-consciousness and indecision vanished from Sam's mind at once with the shock of it. Mr. Frodo's tongue, hot and bold, swept right into his mouth, ravishing him with a surge of lust that left him stiff inside his breeches in spite of Rosie's attentions. He made a low sound, half whimper and half-growl, and hitched Frodo up tight against him, kissing him back clumsily, but with growing determination, ignoring his aching arms. He spread his legs and bent back, taking more of Frodo's weight with his strong thighs, eyes squeezed shut tight as he lost himself in bliss and fire. 

His master's fierce, sweet mouth wandered, biting kisses across Sam's jaw and down his throat; Sam hissed and kneaded, hands filled with Frodo's narrow bottom. Then Frodo was chuckling, legs loosening, sliding down from their hold on Sam's waist. Sam released him with reluctance, easing him onto his feet. Mr. Frodo dropped a quick kiss onto Sam's nose and fumbled at his collar for a ribbon. 

Sam stood stunned, struggling to think of something to say and unable to do aught more than dither. Mr. Frodo unfastened the bit of ribbon, giving Sam a sly smile. Placing it in Sam's hand, he darted away past Rosie, who stood aside to let him go, catching his eyes with the strangest expression as he passed. 

She shook herself from her reverie and tilted her head at Sam, for all the world as though chiding him. "It's almost middle-night," she chivvied the astounded hares, rousing them from staring at Sam in a daze. "We'd best get back to the green." 

Dazed, Sam stood still in spite of the warning, watching after her as she departed, but without really seeing. Frodo's kiss still tingled on his lips, and he rubbed the bit of satiny ribbon-- harsh in comparison to his master's skin-- between his fingertips.

Sam couldn't fathom what had just happened, try as he might. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, his mind still insisted Mr. Frodo couldn't possibly want him. It must be a jest, or a game... perhaps he would catch Mr. Frodo in the chase, only for his master to laugh at him, or to turn awkward, not having expected to be caught by Samwise Gamgee, or worse, to turn haughty, and tell Sam to be off.

He bit his lip, staring down at the little bit of ribbon.

"Well, ye got what ye wanted. Have ye come to your senses, then?" His Gaffer's voice penetrated his reverie. "Or are ye too flustered and bebothered to know when it's time to stop?" The Gaffer stumped over, his cane digging little divots in the green.

Sam lifted his eyes to the Gaffer's, and saw sympathy there in spite of the gruff tone. "I don't know as it's time to stop, but I don't know as it isn't," he answered, truthful enough to make his cheeks burn.

"Ye should be chasin' the Cotton lass. But ye've put your foot in that, right enough. Now she's chasin' the master as she shouldn't be, and feelings will be hurt any which way the running goes." The Gaffer shook his head. "Well, 'twon't be the first time, and that's a fact. Better feelings be hurt than ye put a babe in the belly of a lass ye don't love."

Sam's cheeks flamed at the frank advice, and he closed the ribbon inside his fist. "It ain't that I'm not fond of Rosie." For he was, truth be told. He just... he wasn't ready for that sort of thing, and mightn't ever be, depending.

"Ye've just spent a lifetime tied in knots over that Mr. Frodo. Don't think I'm not noticin', and that he ain't noticin' neither." The Gaffer shook his head, wry, and pulled out his pipe. "I reckon he means to offer up a chance for ye to get a pleasant tumble and work this out of your system, Sam-lad, so mind ye don't go shamin' yourself after."

Shame flushed through Sam at his old dad's words anyhow, and a spark of anger kindled along with it. "Mr. Frodo ain't that sort."

"Ain't he?" Gaffer lowered his voice. "Well, mayhap ye know better than your old dad, but mayhap all your cheek's for naught, Samwise. Ye'll be seeing soon enough who's won ribbons from him this day, and it ain't just Rosie Cotton and Sam Gamgee." He tamped rough-cut leaf into the bowl of his pipe, then cast about for a straw or twig to light at a nearby torch.

Sam's chin firmed, stubborn; it seemed the Gaffer's statement of his own doubt had touched some buried thing in him and fired his courage. "Well, Dad, I suppose I knew that all along. And don't go worryin'. I'm not about to shame you none, nor Mr. Frodo neither. If I catch him it'll have to be done fair and square, I'll warrant. And if he don't want no more of it then or after, I'll abide by his decision. But if he does, then you'll have to be abiding by mine to give it to him, and that's flat."

The Gaffer's eyes went round; he stared at Sam for a moment over the filled bowl of his unlit pipe before they narrowed and then dropped to examine his pipe, frowning at it and turning it as though it was a new one he was deciding whether or not to buy.

"Don't hold your breath hoping for that, lad. Remember your place." The Gaffer pointed to Sam sternly with the stem, then stuck it between his teeth unlit.

"Aye; that's just what I'll do, and it's under the Party Tree right now, seemingly." Heart pounding and blood racing in his veins uncomfortably fast from the sheer cheek of offering such sauce to his old Dad, Sam turned resolutely and made his way towards the green.

He was hindered in reaching his goal by a steady stream of hobbits headed the other way. Most were mothers with babes in arms and children in tow, but some of the lads and lasses were old enough to know why they were being taken away to bed and to be sullen about it.

Sullen or no, they went, as Sam himself had done in past years. A few among them, he knew, only gave the appearance of going. They'd be back after fooling their mothers into believing they'd gone to bed-- back, and hiding in the nearby hedgerows and haystacks hoping to have a look at what happened next. Most of them would be too late, Sam judged likely, though they had an outside chance of witnessing more in the morning.

The hares stood assembled in a loose, chattering knot on the northernmost end of the green, towards Overhill, and the hounds southward towards Hobbiton. A walled pavilion had been set up, its sides fluttering weakly in the dew-heavy night breeze. Sam's heart picked up a beat at the sight of it, and his throat felt tight and his tongue too thick; he knew what it was for. He had to pass them by on his way to join the hounds, and May Belle Stoneheaver darted out of the flock and stood in his way.

"I hear Mr. Frodo led you a merry chase, Samwise," she purred. Sam flushed, keenly aware of eyes resting on them. "But if you'd rather have a nice armful of buxom lass than a bony lad," her voice fell, sultry with invitation, "You're a fine sturdy lad, Sam, and I reckon you'll do. I want you to meet me up where the mill-race starts. Be there just when Borgil shines overhead, and I'll show you a proper good time."

Sam blinked at her, so shocked he could do naught but stammer. "M-may Belle!"

"Mind you don't leave me waiting, Sam." With a sultry flip of her skirts, May Belle returned to the hares and Sam scampered to join the relative safety of the milling hounds. He resisted the temptation to touch his cheeks, which felt flame-hot, what with the curious and amused looks her antics had drawn to him.

He was in no mood to stand about any longer waiting to be ambushed again, so he felt properly glad to see Daddy Sandheaver was still about, looking as spry and alert as he had in the early morn, no doubt the better for an afternoon nap.

"Let's be about it then!" the creaky old hobbit chivvied the lad at his side, giving him a clout on the shoulder when he hovered, too obviously solicitous. "Let go, you young lout! I ain't as old as all that. You hares and hounds, now." He raised his voice, a little thin and reedy, but a hush fell so that he could be heard. "The ribbons are won, and there's no more trading to be done. Hounds, you can chase any hare you've a mind to-- if you claimed a token! If you didn't, the hare's off limits, and never mind if she's your sweetheart. Or he," he coughed, frowning a little. "Here, lad, step up. The rest of you, in a line. No shoving, mind!"

Sam fell into the line about halfway down its length, gathering his tokens in his sweaty hand. Rose stood half a dozen paces behind him, her hand closed around her prizes. Sam avoided her eyes. Daddy Twofoot read the names aloud off the first lad's ribbons as the line straggled forward-- proud of knowing his letters, it was plain.

"Esmerelda Bolger. Pansy Burrowes. Araminta Weaver..." as each name rang out, a lass answered "aye," confirming the gift of the token. Their voices varied from shy and trembling to brass-bold.

"Lily Gravel. Pansy Meadowes. Frodo Baggins."

Sam started, eyes snapping up; Frodo's calm "aye" confirmed the token. The lad standing at the head of the line was Marco Cotton, one of Sam's own cousins. He was a pleasant roundfaced fellow with a shock of thick brown hair that always flamed with red under the Sun and a thick scatter of freckles across his nose, and Sam had always thought him too shy to speak to a stranger, even now that he was nearly grown.

"Down with them hackles, Sam Gamgee," a lad murmured in his ear. "Or you'll fright the freckles off Marco's face, and that's a fact!"

Sam made himself look away, but he felt the tension settle in is shoulders, refusing to be so easily dismissed. It might be the first, but likely it weren't the last.

His guess was right; by the time he'd reached the front of the line, Mr. Frodo's name had been called another three times, and each time met by his calm acknowledgement of a token granted. Two of his tokens were held by girls as had joined the hounds, and they stood together smiling smugly at Frodo, visions of Bag End dancing in their eyes so plain they might as well have had it writ on their foreheads.

Sam stepped up and handed over his modest collection, ears going red as Daddy Sandheaver read the names. "Frodo Baggins. Primrose Goodwater. Ivy Hayfield. May Belle Stoneheaver." Sam could fair feel Rosie's eyes boring into his nape, sharp as gimlets, but all he could hear was Frodo's voice, calm and warm, acknowledging Sam's token with the same unstudied grace as he might have used to thank Sam for a cup of tea.

After that, it seemed the rest of the line took no time at all, though he did pay a bit of mind to Rosie's turn at its head. It turned out she'd not only caught Frodo, but two lasses as well! She gave Sam a satisfied smirk and tossed her curls before joining the waiting hounds who milled about under the Tree, waiting for the next part of the chase to begin.

Finally it was done, with only a few dissenting tokens to be reclaimed from their owners, and Daddy Sandheaver looked about, clearing his throat and waiting for a lull. "This bit o' the chase we'll do proper, just like in days gone, though ye don't need me to tell it to ye, I'll warrant!" He chuckled, gleeful, and the hares murmured and blushed. Mr. Frodo just stood with his hands in his pockets, a half-smile on his face, perfectly composed. He'd given away seven tokens all told, or else Sam missed his count. Worse, lads held no less than four of them.

"In the tent with ye, and don't ye come out till ye strip down as bare as ye were born!" Daddy Sandheaver shooed at the hares, flapping his palms, and they vanished behind the flap, their nervous tittering muffled by the heavy canvas.

Mr. Frodo went inside the tent with them, for all he was a lad, and Sam heard more than a few chuckles at the sight. "Now there's a lucky lad, and mayhap this was what he's been after all day," Hob Brockhouse murmured at Sam's ear. Sam ignored him, sidling towards the tent where the hounds had begun to mass, jockeying for position.

"Stand back there, back now!" Daddy Sandheaver reached for his cane and swung it about, clouting a few of the over-eager hounds until they fell back behind a line of his choosing. "Don't be falling on them as soon as they leave the tent! That's not how it's done. Chase them fair, or not at all!"

The wind had begun to pick up, rustling in the branches and turning up the silver bellies of the leaves with a cool, restful sound. A gust of it caught the flap of the tent and lifted it partway, causing a fluttering shriek from inside and a rumble of appreciation from without; Sam's cheeks burned at the glimpse of bare thigh and rounded breast he'd caught before it fell, and he thought suddenly of Rosie, her sweet slick flesh burning hot against his hand. His body tightened. He hadn't never seen such a sight, not even when he sneaked up on May and her friends playing at dares in the wood! It wouldn't be easy for him to run in such a state-- and mayhap, the hares were counting on it.

"Make yourselves ready!" Daddy Sandheaver thumped the canvas with his stick. "Don't be all night about it."

After a further few minutes the clamor in the tent stilled; it seemed everyone in the field stopped breathing to wait, their eyes resting on the tent. "Well, go ahead," May Belle's voice called, and Daddy Sandheaver reached and pulled back on the flap. Hands flew to help him, and soon both flaps of the pavilion tent were hooked to poles at either side of its mouth. In spite of himself, Sam couldn't tear his eyes from the hares revealed within: every one without so much as a stitch on her. Everywhere he looked, he could see acres of pale skin-- pink nipples and shadowy navels and soft curly triangles. And....

Sam's throat closed. Ivory pale, Mr. Frodo stood calm at one side of the hares, perhaps with just the faintest hue of a pink flush on his cheeks. His narrow body was sleek and slim, not padded with luscious curves like the girls, but Sam's blood burned to see it, for below his hipbones, there lay--

"Run!" Daddy Sandheaver yelped, swinging his arms, and the tent erupted in a seething mass of arms and legs as the hares bolted forth, streaming past the waiting hounds into the night. Sam almost fell, buffeted on every side by the equally urgent press of the hounds bolting after them; blinking, he realized he would be left, so he put down his head and ran.

Booths and laughing faces flashed past as Sam was carried along with the pack, jostled and bumped by the press of bodies around him. Dozens of hobbits crowded out of the way, pressing close around the pavilions that lined each lane along the field. Gaffers and gammers and stout hobbit wives and sturdy husbands alike stood watching, leaving only a fading impression of scattered, blurred faces when he darted out through the hedge at last and found himself in the lane. He felt the the weight of their combined gazes lift from his shoulders like a burden, and kept barreling forwards blindly.

He realized he'd best sort himself out sooner rather than later, so he picked up his eyes and squinted ahead as he ran-- and was amazed how much alike the lasses looked without their frocks on. Bottoms and legs flashed everywhere, ghostly pale in the moon, and he couldn't even make out the color of the curls that topped the girls' white shoulders.

Of Frodo, he could find no sign. All the arses he could see were round and plump and distinctly female.

Dismayed, Sam stumbled to the edge of the lane and stepped out of the race to catch his breath, watching the rest of the hounds stream by, trying to calm his mind enough to think. Hares were scattering across the countryside; by the sound of their delighted shrieks, some few had already been caught.

But Frodo would be clever-- he wouldn't let himself be caught right off. No, his master was as smart as a fox; likely he'd duck out of the way and hide a bit, or double back, or--

"Have you given up already?" Frodo's light laugh teased Sam, who pivoted so sharp he nearly fell. Moonlight glowed on Frodo's skin, turning it to alabaster. For the life of him, Sam couldn't figure how Frodo had managed to hide well enough on the verge of the lane that the press of the hounds had missed him. "That's not like you at all, Samwise!"

"That I ain't," Sam stammered. Moonshadows darted and flitted on Frodo's body, hiding what Sam most wished to see. "I figured you for trying some sort of a fox's trick, and it seems I reckoned right."

Frodo's smile deepened. A bit of breeze caught in his curls, dancing them silver under the moon, and without another word he flashed past Sam swift as an arrow, leaping the narrow ditch that bounded the lane and dashing down along the curve of the land towards the Water.

Sam didn't dither a second; his whole body surged with giddy joy, and he tore after Frodo as fast as he could run. Frodo darted in and out of shadow like the Moon behind shredded cloud, sure-footed in the night. His narrow body was built for sprinting and with no obstacles to halt him, he steadily gained on Sam until his pale body flashed in an arc in the moonlight and a splash greeted Sam's ears.

Sam pulled up short right on the banks of the Water, looking out into it with dismay; Frodo was swimming, quick and clever as you please, riding the breast of the water like a swan. A regular Brandybuck trick, that!

The fastest way 'round was over three times longer than the Water was wide, and it went through a marshy patch up at one end, but there was a path of tussocks through the marsh and Sam didn't hesitate, taking off around the bank at a dead run. He had to slow and pick his way through the bog, then jump the brook at its center, and by the time he found Frodo's wet footprints leading out of the Water on the opposite bank, there was no sign of his master to be seen.

Sam's eyes narrowed with thought. He was a better than indifferent tracker, if it come to that. The nearest bit of cover was the woody thicket off by Widow Rumble's smial, and Frodo could have made that easily by now, fast as he could run.

Sam trotted off towards the dark patch of woods, noting a bit of trampled grass here and there-- fresh-disturbed dew, too, and every now and again part of a footprint in the soft earth. He heard voices and a low purring cry from off to his right as he advanced-- a hound had already found his hare, and the two were making the best possible use of the field, according to custom. Sam averted his eyes and kept tracking, his face prickling with the heat of his blush nonetheless.

The lane wound around the cup of the valley, meandering between various smials and byres. As he approached its nearest bend, Sam became aware that there was a lass on it-- not a hare, for she was clad in skirts. She stood on tiptoe for a moment, peering over a fencerow, then advanced on, peering about on the left side of the lane and peeping over a garden hedge before moving brush aside to peer into a covert. Suspicion grew in Sam's breast as he neared the lane, moving stealthily-- she was obviously hunting a hare, and something about her manner... the moon slid from behind a tatter of cloud, brightening the lane. Yes, it was Rosie.

"Rose Cotton, you'll not find a hare that way, not standing out in the moonlight as you are where any blind pig could see you coming." He was startled to hear a note of jealousy in his voice. How had she known which way Frodo might come?

"And you'll not find one if you're afraid to get your feet wet," she told him tartly.

Sam shifted his feet self-consciously, staring at her, torn between shame and challenge. The silence stretched, uncomfortable; urgency burned and pulsed in his mind. Every moment, Frodo was drawing farther away.

"Borgil is nearly overhead. Aren't you going to meet your darling May Belle by the mill-race?" Rosie's too-sweet tone made shame flush Sam's cheeks, and he shook his head vehemently. "It isn't far, and it would surely be better than following me hoping I catch Frodo Baggins for you." Without so much as changing tone, her words cut sharp, making Sam blink with startlement.

"It isn't me as is doing the following," he told her right sharp. "You're the one standing there waiting for me to take off so you can follow."

"Is that so?" she answered him, pert as you please, and set her nose in the very direction Sam had been planning to take, traipsing across the Widow Rumble's yard towards the wood.

Sam scowled after, torn between the knowledge of Frodo's whereabouts and not wanting to look like he *was* following. He could take the lane on out and come at the wood when it wound back around the ridge, but that added an extra five hundred ells to the journey, if it added a step.

"Now see here!" Sam trotted after her hastily, but he kept his voice low, for the Widow Rumble was notorious for not sleeping through any pranks that young ruffians might try to pull in her yard, and he didn't want her coming out to speak her piece at them, not tonight. "You can't follow me from afore, either, if you take my meaning!"

"It seems to me it's the one behind as is doing the following." She lifted her skirts and stepped through a border of coneflowers dainty as you could ask. Sam fumed and followed, making up his mind to lose her in the wood.

They scrambled through the gorse that bordered the wood, and Sam briefly forgot his ire at Rosie in his concern for Mr. Frodo's delicate skin, but when they were standing beneath the mossy boughs, Rosie came to a halt, looking about thoughtfully.

"Well, don't you know where you're going?"

"Don't you?"

"You made me lose the trail at the road," Sam flushed. That was not strictly the truth. If the truth be told, he'd forgotten to look for it in his haste not to let her outdo him.

"He won't leave as much track as a hawk on the wing," Rosie shook her head, decisive. "We've got to outsmart him at his own game."

"You're free to try," Sam made up his mind. "But me, I'm going to see if I can pick up his track." He turned his back on her and cast about. They were far enough from the Water that Mr. Frodo was dry now, so there wouldn't be no drips nor wet prints to follow. It wasn't easy tracking naught under the Moon, but Sam had no mind to follow Rosie no further. He wouldn't, whether he had Mr. Frodo's trail or not, now that he knew she didn't have it neither.

He set out walking, thinking he'd try his luck in the neighborhood of Mr. Frodo's favorite tree. Ignoring Rosie's little noise of annoyance, he kept going until she was left behind and the shadow of the trees blocked out the last light of the Moon, leaving only starlight to guide Sam's way. There was a path nearby, one that his feet knew well, and he soon located it. It was narrow but smooth, by far the best path through the wood even by day. What's more, Frodo knew of it too, and Sam would bet a day's wages he'd used it.

Sam traded haste for stealth, slowing his feet and letting his toes land first in the mould, setting his heels with care. The wood was full of the whisper of the breeze, leaves stirring and rustling together, telling the night's secrets overhead. He could hear no living creature other than the churring call of a nightjar.

He pattered out into the dell beneath the shoulder of the wood almost without realizing he'd reached it, breaking a spiderweb with his face-- and smiled, suddenly. The dew lay grey on the thick grass across the dell, except for a single track. Narrow, too narrow to have been made by anyone wearing skirts. Sam hastily bent his own path aside to follow it, a smile curling his lip. Moving more quietly than a mouse, he parted the grass, creeping near to the single broad-boled tree that stood in the center of the dell. The trail vanished under its shadow, but Sam could sense something; he could almost taste someone there, could almost scent the heady mingling of fear and anticipation on the wind.

Slowly he crept near, lip between his teeth, until he felt the rough damp bark under his hands, and darted around the tree, already reaching to seize his prize.

A shriek greeted his appearance, and his hands closed on slim shoulders-- *a lass.* Her heart-shaped face turned up to Sam, eyes wide.

"Dandelion Harfoot?!" Sam sputtered, letting her go like her shoulders burned his hands.

"Samwise Gamgee." Her voice fell to a distinctly satisfied purr, and Sam blinked. "A well-set-up fellow indeed."

"Now see here, it wasn't you I was following," Sam backpedaled frantically, but she followed him.

"Yes, yes, we all know you've got your heart set for Himself from under Hill." She licked her lips, the tip of her dainty pink tongue gleaming in the moonlight. "He passed not but a few minutes ago, but now you've caught yourself a hare, Samwise, and you've a duty to do!"

Sam gulped, hands going out to her shoulders again-- but to push her away, not to draw her near. "There ain't no rule says I can't let a hare go if I've a mind."

"Oh, but you don't want to." Her voice dropped to a purr, and she pressed forward, pushing him another step back. The moonlight flowed over her as they passed from under the boughs, and Sam's eyes fell, then locked there, unable to tear away. Her breasts were not so full as Rosie's, but they were high-set, with hard round nipples, and they were all but touching his chest. Her foot slid behind his ankle, soft curls tickling at his calf as she slid it up towards his knee, lifting her pouting mouth. His body tightened, and his nostrils drew in the scent of her, a warm musky perfume like apples.

Sam hesitated, not having no experience with such and too polite to push her off him, knowing he was lost. Dandelion lifted her mouth, lips parted--

"He's got no need for goods as have been picked over and left on the shelf." Dandelion jerked back, glowering over Sam's shoulder. Rosie's voice was more welcome than Sam had ever thought it could be, even if it was cold and dry as a sunny morning in Win'filth.

"You'd best get running, Dandelion, before I set up a cry you've been found. I left half a dozen of the Brockhouse cousins and two Weavers back in the lane, and they'd be here quick as lightning, and plenty eager to share you out between them." Rosie stepped into the light, her chin high and her mouth set tight. "For all you'd like that well enough, I know you've got your cap set for fresh meat, hussy, so you'd best be letting my Sam go."

"Here now," Sam said weakly. "I'm not--" but Dandelion hissed a word at Rosie that made his ears burn and let him go, melting away into the night like a shade.

"She shouldn't talk so about herself." Rosie stepped up to Sam, her mouth twisting wry, the shadows distorting the expression till he couldn't tell if she was angry or no. "Even though 'tis true."

Amazingly, there was a laugh in her voice, not anger at all. Sam shook his head; he wouldn't ever be able to figure out lasses and their tempers.

"And what of you, Sam? Have you had enough of the chase? No?" Rosie shook her head. "If you can chase at all, with your breeches in that state-- oh, don't dither so. Your flesh knows a hussy when you see one; you're not to blame for that. You've got naught I haven't seen anyhow, or had you forgotten? But never mind that. The Brockhouses and the Weavers aren't the only lads about, Sam. I saw my own cousin Marco heading this way not two minutes before you found me on the lane."

It was Sam's turn to hiss, Dandelion forgotten. He whirled, anxiously seeking Frodo's tracks in the grass. There they were, plain as day, but Rosie--

"Sam, we'd best work together don't you think?" Rosie sounded strangely tentative. "Working against one another, now, we're getting nowhere."

"It's fine and good till we catch him," Sam shook his head, stubbornly, taking a sideways step towards the trail even as he turned to answer her. "Then there ain't no working together to it."

"Ain't there?" She tilted her chin, defiant. "Wouldn't you rather have half of him than none at all?"

"You're wicked, Rosie Cotton!" Sam's hasty breath didn't seem to satisfy him nohow, catching short in his chest. Rosie *and* Frodo? He couldn't for the life of him figure it; what with his breeches too tight and his heart half squeezed in two, and his head whirling at the thought.

Rosie smiled, that confident little secret smile that made his heart pound with a strange surge of panic and terror mixed with something else, something wild and giddy that went right to the part of him that swelled hottest. She meant it, Sam understood abruptly, and she thought she could be having it, too.

"See here; Mr. Frodo won't never...!" Sam started, but she was moving already, dashing past him and along the path, and there weren't naught to do but follow or be left.

 

 

She seemed to know where she was going, her heels flashing as she darted into the woods, avoiding tree-limbs and deadfalls with the grace of a deer, her skirts hardly a hindrance even in the underbrush. Mayhap her eyes were sharper than Sam's, and better able to follow the trail, though Sam was loath to admit it. He kept running after, ignoring the stitch trying to form in his side, bracing it with one hand and fending off branches with the other-- they kept slapping him in the face as they sprang back from her passing.

"Here now, stop smacking me about," Sam gasped, cross and smarting and spitting leaves.

"Keep up, then!" she tossed over her shoulder, and vaulted a fallen tree neatly, her skirts flipping up to reveal her smooth calves in the soft moonlight. 

Sam made neat work of the tree himself, then near lost his balance as they started to negotiate the slippery pine needles of the slope beyond. They had crossed over a shoulder of the Hill, and were on Mr. Frodo's private land now, the part which wasn't farmed by none of the tenants-- behind the Hill proper. Behind the Hill, which rose gently on the Hobbiton side, there was a surprisingly steep drop. The path wound its way down the drop, into a narrow hollow cut by the spring that arose partway down the back of the Hill. A wood lay there, filled with scrubby pines and lady's slipper. Frodo had haunted the wood when he was a young lad, and visited it frequently even now that he'd come of age. In bad winters, the Bagginses let the local hobbits hunt for game here, and forage for deadfalls, but cutting live trees or hunting during good times wasn't allowed. Even Sam didn't never come here, not unless he was invited.

"Have a care and don't fall," Rose warned, picking her way down as nimbly as a goat. Sam growled low in his throat, but took care as instructed, not wanting to knock her down, too. If they fell, there would be a long steep tumble and then a nasty splash into standing water at the bottom. Mr. Bilbo had got old Holman to dig out a bathing-pool under the spring way back before Sam was born, and it was the deepest water hereabouts, deeper even than the Bywater Pool. Sometimes Mr. Frodo sneaked off alone and had a swim here of a hot summer's day, Sam knew, and every time he learned about it, it fretted him something terrible. His master didn't seem to have a sensible fear of being drownded, for all that his parents were.

Rosie beat him down the hill and waited on the wooden footbridge that led across the end of the pool closest to the spring, her hair catching the faint moonlight. Sam joined her at length, puffing. He didn't like this bridge, not even at noon; it didn't have any hand rails, its flat span unprotected. An unwary hobbit might fall into the water, if he were clumsy. 

"What have you brought us here for?" he demanded, working to catch his breath and trying not to seem obvious about it. "There ain't no way he'd come down here in this dark woods so late of a night."

"That shows what you know, Samwise Gamgee." Rosie tossed her head impatiently. She stepped out onto the bridge as confident as midday. 

Sam followed after rather more nervously, shuffling to be sure of each step before he took it. Falling water sang in his ears, and a damp, hollow smell filled his nostrils. The boards were wet but sound, thank the Powers; Mr. Frodo made sure the bridge stayed in good repair. 

The moon dimmed and went out, passing behind a skirt of cloud, and Sam stopped short on the bridge, afraid of falling into the water. Before he could do more than draw a shaky breath, a bright flare of lightning split the sky and illuminated the wood with eerie blue clarity-- and Mr. Frodo stood revealed, waiting on the edge of the pool and looking towards them. By coincidence, he was standing almost where Sam was looking, caught for a split instant in carved marble beauty, then plunged into darkness so deep it left the image of him flickering in the blackness, burned oto Sam's eyes like a white flame.

"There you are." Rosie sounded triumphant. "Have you waited long, Mr. Frodo?"

His answer was lost in an avalanche of thunder, rolling so hard across the land it shook Sam's feet and he reached out to Rosie for balance.

"Come along, Sam." Rosie caught his hand when the thunder had subsided and tugged him forward. "A body would almost think you wanted to go back and find that Dandelion, the way you dawdle."

Sam sighed with relief when he felt soft, mossy turf under his feet instead of the damp texture of the boards, but his breath came short in his throat nonetheless, tight with the memory of Mr. Frodo, as lovely as a carved bone statue. 

"I've brought him," Rosie spoke, exultant. Her grip tightened on Sam's hand. 

Sam's eyes flew wide. 

"Yes." Frodo's voice sounded aetherial in the dim, disembodied and floating. "It was a fine plan, Mistress Rose."

Sam dithered, struggling with the immensity of the understanding that dawned on him as they spoke; the complicity and the implications of it all staggered him, and he stood dumbstruck, blinking into the night like the ninnyhammer his Gaffer so often accused him of being. How long had they planned this? He couldn't begin to imagine or guess how they might have agreed to work together to bring him to this pass.

"Come along, Sam," Frodo's voice caressed Sam, soft as the night breeze, and his fingers twined with Sam's free hand. He tugged gently. "There are blankets and wine."

Sam obeyed automatically, his feet uncertain on the uneven turf, his toes curling into soft moss. Just on this side of the pool stood a knot of tall poplar and beech among the pines, and there was a bit of greenery about their feet. Mr. Bilbo had told him once how they survived the Fell Winter, escaping the axe because the hobbits hereabouts believed the spirit of the spring would leave, and the water dry up, if all the wood were cut from about its feet. The pines had been planted by Mr. Bilbo's own dad, to replace such timber as hadn't been so lucky.

"Stop your woolgathering and come along, Sam." Rosie's voice penetrated the dither, exasperated but fond, and she tugged harder. A sound of metal scraping heralded the glow of light from a hooded lantern, and Sam blinked shyly against the light, which set Mr. Frodo's skin to dancing with color like the alabaster vase in the front hall at Bag End. 

There were blankets, as promised, piled thick between the roots of a big beech, and a picnic hamper besides-- Sam wryly acknowledged the foolishness of his surprise at that; the tryst had obviously been well-planned in advance. He knew he'd been had-- or more precisely, he knew he was about to be. Mr. Frodo wasn't the hare here, not at all. The quarry had been Sam all along.

Sam shivered at that, heat swelling below his belt, and swallowed hard. Rosie's fingers slipped from his, and she went to Frodo, who smiled at her and slid his arm about her waist, drawing her in and tilting his head for a kiss. She met it with confidence, and Sam's mouth went dry to watch her bold hands enter the embrace, then slide down Mr. Frodo's slim back to palm his smooth round arse. Sam heard a strangled sound from his own throat, and didn't know if it was dismay, jealousy, or appreciation. 

Mr. Frodo's hands weren't idle, neither. One sought out her breast and filled itself, and the other gathered her skirt and then sneaked under it, and Sam wondered if he hadn't ought to leave, by rights. He took one step back, and Mr. Frodo lifted his head, his eyes dark.

"Stay." The words were firm, an order if Sam had ever heard one. "Later, Rose." He gave her breast a little squeeze, and she purred, then stepped back, her skirt falling proper decent again. 

"I'm afraid we've been scheming between us, Sam." Frodo released Rosie and stepped forward, as clad in dignity as he would have been if he were wearing his proper kit. "For some time, actually. If neither of us could get you alone, we'd both have you here." The slightest uncertainty clouded his eyes for a moment. He reached for Sam's hand, caught it, and drew him forward. 

"'Twas my fault, Sam." Rose had the decency to look abashed, if only for a moment. "I've been trying to draw your eye for an age, it seems, and you've only got an eye for Mr. Frodo, so last summer just after Lithe, I reckoned I'd have it out with him and get him to set you straight, knowing you were wasting your time about it all. So I crept off from home when I could, hoping to catch Mr. Frodo alone and have a word, and so I did, not long after. I was about and saw him set off over the Hill with his bath cloth, and I followed him down here." Rose colored and fidgeted with her skirts, almost apologetic. 

"That she did." Frodo stepped behind Sam, a warm and soothing presence behind him-- and Sam wasn't fool enough not to see they'd cut off his escape, one afore and one aft like they were, and him trapped between them like a coney in a snare. "And she found me bathing, with my clothes folded on the bridge, so she sat down upon them and refused to move until she had her say."

"That I did." Rose's cheeks flushed pink. "With him in the water and all unclad, Sam. I sat down right upon his weskit and breeches, and I spoke up pert and told him to stop a-flirting with you if he didn't mean to do aught about it, and let someone else have her fair chance, seeing as how he couldn't marry you and give you babes and all. I told him I wouldn't move until I had his promise." Her hands reached out, and Sam thought she meant to smooth his collar-- until her deft fingers worked his collar button, and it was his turn to flush.

Mr. Frodo's arms went about him at the same time, and his nimble fingers started picking the knot from the rope Sam wore for a belt, and Sam swallowed thickly, finding his breath rather too short in his chest. 

"I'm afraid I wouldn't give that promise, Sam." Mr. Frodo's voice was heavy with feeling, sweet as sugar-syrup. "And I told her so, and asked her to remove herself, or suffer the consequences."

"But I wouldn't move." Rose's fingers were on his third button now, and he didn't have many more. "And so he come a-swimming up to me right where I sat, and then--"

"I lifted her skirts," Frodo's hot tongue flickered like a flame over the rim of Sam's ear.

"And I thought he meant to get his clothes from under me when he pushed my legs apart, Sam." Rosie finished his buttons and pushed his shirt open, her fingertips trailing fire along his chest.

"And I did, but she meant not to move, and she didn't have on anything underneath her skirt, you see." Frodo's breath tickled Sam's ear, and his mouth fastened to the skin beneath it.

"So he opened me up and he put his tongue to me, he did, just as forward as you please." Rosie's hand dipped into Sam's breeches and closed about what it sought.

"Any means to an end seems prudent, in a difficult situation." Frodo's hand slid Sam's shirt over his shoulders and pushed it down along his arms, till it fell onto the forest mould. 

"I'd never felt such." Rosie leaned in, her mouth hot and soft against Sam's. "Oh, I was flustered to begin, but in half a moment, I didn't care nohow." She licked along his jaw, and bit daintily at his throat. 

"Nor I," Frodo admitted, and his fingers slipped into Sam's waistband. "It had been a long time, and our Rose is a comely lass, Sam." He pushed the breeches down over Sam's hips, and they dropped to join his shirt. 

Sam was all of a lather, what with them handling him and painting such a picture in his mind. He could feel Mr. Frodo's soft cool skin settling against his back, and then the hard swell of his cock nudging against Sam's arse, and he trembled, all but beside himself.

"And I cried and wailed till all the birds flew of a fright, from his hands and his mouth on me." Rosie's hand knew its business, firm and tight. 

"And when she finished, I joined her on the bridge and showed her how to do what she's doing to you this very minute." Frodo's hands joined Rosie's on Sam.

Sam moaned, his head tipping back and his eyes squeezed tight shut. He could see them, almost as vivid as he could feel their hands and mouths on his skin. 

"We met regular enough after that, and 'twas him that showed me the way of things." Rosie's hand gave him a sweetly wicked little twist. "He's had me every way but one, Sam."

"And that we saved for you," Frodo said softly. "Rose, let's get him off his feet."

They lowered him into the nest of blankets, and Sam went, blindly opening for kisses, not caring whose mouth sought his. But then they were gone, and his eyes blinked open and found them kneeling side by side before him, and bending forward, their eyes both fiercely intent and curiously tender.

Sam wailed as the wet heat of their mouths touched him, both at once. Rosie's curls tickled his thigh, golden-brown and soft, as she slid her mouth down along his shaft, her tongue tracing the vein, and Mr. Frodo's head bobbed straight in front, as he followed her down, sheathing all of Sam inside his mouth and throat and swallowing. 

Rosie's mouth pressed a kiss inside his thigh, and her fingers curled about his balls, lifting, and one of her hands slid lower, clever and certain, and before he knew it, Mr. Frodo's head was coming up but Rosie's finger was pushing in and he yelped, a broken cry throttled in his throat-- and then Rosie's finger moved and curled flame inside him, and both their mouths skated over him, all flickering tongues and soft lips and wet, hot pressure. 

Sam collapsed backward like cut string even as his hips arched up to meet them; the noises he could hear coming from his throat sounded like a wounded animal dying in pain. The two of them hummed against his skin, a soft melody that set his nerves on fire and thrummed through him with all the power of the thunder, grumbling in the background just the way his Gaffer would if he ever saw them in such a tangle as this. 

Sam dug his fingers into the moss on either side of the blanket, frantic; his muscles strained and snapped taut like he was lifting a load heavy enough for five hobbits all by himself, but he couldn't hardly take time to notice, because now it was Rosie sinking down to sheathe him in her throat and Frodo biting fierce little spots of bright sensation along the tendon in his thigh that made him yelp and want to scream, because the sensation inside him was so big it couldn't never be contained by one single hobbit. 

But contain it he must, for Frodo licked and bit cleverly, working a sensitive spot just beside Sam's balls, and Rosie had two fingers in him by the feel of it, and after a bit she stopped going slow and started to bob her head faster, her mouth sweet and tight. Sam wailed, unable to hold the sounds back anymore, and the flare of chill against his wet skin as they switched off was only fuel to the fire stoking itself to devour him. 

Frodo's mouth proved even better than Rosie's, his tongue teasing at Sam even as he tupped his own throat hard and fast with Sam's cock. He sucked firmly all the while, and it felt so good that Sam squeezed his eyes shut, seeing starflowers blossom and fade inside his eyelids. Rosie's wet warm mouth closed soft around one of his balls, and her fingers danced inside him, and her other hand sought and found his nipple. When her fingers pinched and twisted there, Sam heard himself yell as though he was someone else, ragged bursts of sound tearing from his throat. He shot right in Frodo's mouth, hips bucking uncontrollably, and Frodo took it, every scalding burst of it, right on his tongue, his hands steady on Sam's thighs.

When Sam finally blinked his lashes open, Mr. Frodo was pulling off him and reaching for Rosie, who came eagerly, her mouth opening, and Mr. Frodo rose to his knees and bent over her, kissing her. She moaned, and Sam blinked, then whimpered-- Mr. Frodo had Sam's seed in his mouth, and he was sharing it with her, and she took it greedily, then opened her mouth and gave it back to him, and he tipped his head to make it easier for her. The kisses grew stickier and wetter between them, first one on top and then the other, the mess spreading until they were licking at one another's lips and chins for the taste of Sam, their breath rapid and harsh. 

He had never seen such a thing-- never heard of such a thing!-- and he stared, wild-eyed, his cock half-subsided on his belly, aching and throbbing protest, even as it surged, craving more. 

Finally they subsided and sank down next to Sam with Mr. Frodo half atop Rosie and half atop him. Then Mr. Frodo wriggled his way comfortably between them. 

"It's her turn now," he told Sam softly. "I want to watch you please her."

Sam looked into the wide blue eyes so close to his, and found he could not deny Frodo anything he wanted. "Yes, sir," he said, and Rosie made a little amused huff in her throat. 

They scrambled about until Sam was next to Rosie, on the other side of her from Frodo, and Sam blushed as he realized Frodo was watching him keenly, his mouth curved with satisfaction, for all the world just like a cat who's been into the cream. 

"Unlace her," Frodo suggested, and Sam realized abruptly that Rosie still had on her frock, even after all this! Frodo shifted lazily, and the motion of his hand drew Sam's eyes as it traveled down his belly and laid itself over his cock, which stood straight with interest. "Take off her bodice and push down her shift." His other hand rested on Rosie's belly, proprietary, waiting for Sam.

Sam obeyed, fingers trembling so badly he nearly made a knot of her laces. Rosie lay back passively, smiling up at Sam, and licked her lips. He pulled her bodice apart, fired by the sudden desire to see her as bare as Mr. Frodo, and fumbled with her shift until she laughed and sat up to help him, shrugging it off and tossing it away. Sam tugged at her skirts, and she lay back down and lifted her hips, and then they were gone, and Sam gazed along her bare body, his nostrils full of the earthy-hot scent of her.

This much Sam knew how to do: he put his mouth to her breast and drew her nipple between his lips, feeling it crinkle and harden against his tongue, and he slid his hand between her thighs and up to her nest of curls, his thumb and finger parting her clumsily. A ripple of pleasure and a soft breathy sigh greeted the touch of his fingertip. She was silky-wet, so he pressed and rubbed tentatively, trying to remember exactly what he had done before. 

Frodo nestled close and found her other nipple with his mouth; his hand brushed over Sam's and then joined him, and Sam drew back to watch what that hand might be doing. His eyes widened and he caught his breath as Frodo sank his finger into Rosie. Sam's eyes went wide, watching it slowly disappear all the way to the third knuckle. Rosie's body stiffened, her back arching, and she quivered beneath them, a gasp escaping her lips. Sam's cock jerked painfully, recovering before it was quite prepared to.

"Don't stop stroking her," Frodo murmured against Rosie's breast. His finger reappeared, then pushed in again faster. Hastily, Sam resumed the gentle motion of his fingertip, and Rosie writhed. Her breath came quick in her chest, and together, they wrung little steep gasps and pants and moans out of her. 

"Look," Frodo murmured, then breathed on Rosie's nipple. Her flesh tightened under his breath, but Sam realized that wasn't what he was meant to watch as Frodo withdrew his finger from her and lifted it to her mouth.

She opened her mouth and let him put it on her tongue, sucking and licking her own nectar off his hand obediently, her eyes closed, a low purr in her throat. 

"She tastes good," Frodo breathed. He pulled his finger free and dipped into her again, making her writhe and shift her hips restlessly. This time, his wet finger painted her lips, sticky and slow, and he leaned in to kiss her shining mouth, his tongue working slow and lazy.

Sam's cock twitched, already back to full attention, and he moaned low in his throat, watching Frodo's fingers as they traveled again, this time to paint her nipple. It gleamed in the lanternlight, golden and welcoming, and Sam leaned in hesitantly to seal his mouth over the taut pink flesh again, finding a salty-sweet flavor awaiting him there. 

"Use your mouth on her," Frodo spoke, the words muffled against her flesh as his lips drifted to seal against her throat and work there. 

Sam hesitated, then slid down, his heart hammering in his chest. Her legs lay parted, her curls wet and dark. He looked at his fingers, still holding her open and touching her. She smelled even more tantalizing from up close, the scent of her rich and tempting, earthy and dark. Sam leaned in, timid, using both hands to part her, and touched the tip of his tongue to the end of the little pink bud that awaited him.

Rosie quivered and cried out, her thighs tensing around Sam's ears, and Frodo reached to press one of them aside, catching it between his own thighs, helping Sam hold her open. Sam took his cue gratefully and drew back for a moment; he pushed her other thigh aside, then lay over it, holding her open with his weight. 

He bent his head and parted her with his fingers, then licked her again, less uncertainly this time. She quivered and Frodo chuckled, then did something Sam couldn't see with his hands that made her cry out. Sam firmed his resolve and bent in, covering the little bud with his mouth, and laid his arm over her hips to hold her down when she arched against him. As an afterthought, he slid the finger of his spare hand into her, just as Frodo had, and Rosie moaned, shifting her hips restlessly under him.

"Bring her off," Frodo instructed softly, his voice rich and dark. 

Sam obeyed, licking and nuzzling until his whole face was wet with her before he finally found what she liked best, judging by the racket she raised as soon as he sealed his lips over her and traced along the bud with his tongue, just so. 

"That's it," Frodo encouraged him, hand warm between Sam's shoulder blades. "Now you've got her." 

He was right; it didn't take more than half a dozen long, slow swipes of Sam's tongue before Rosie quivered and started to buck, sharp panting cries escaping her throat. 

"Slower," Frodo coached him, thumb stroking a soothing path along Sam's spine. "Slower and not so hard." Sam did as he said, and Rosie's cries turned shrill, stretching out and trembling at the end of each one. She felt slippery-wet around his finger and against his chin, hot and salty in his mouth. He shortened his strokes, hearing where she yelped the loudest, and judging what made her start to keen. 

Frodo moved, and Sam paid no attention to what he was doing, but it resulted in Rosie lying stiller than she had before, and that made it easier for him to keep the pressure right where he could tell it did the most good. He slowed his tongue until he was barely moving, just pulsing it constantly against one particular spot, and her full-throated shrieks told him that he had done right. She cursed and jerked hard under Sam, frantic, and only Frodo's hand kept him from rising. "Keep it up, bring her again, Sam, that's a good lad!" 

And so he continued, and she subsided for a little while, but then her cries climbed again until she sounded like a cat in heat, and neither of them could calm her bucking, her body clenching around Sam's finger in desperate pulses before it subsided and she lay gasping.

"Once more, Sam; third time pays for all!" Frodo kissed Sam's neck and he persisted, though his jaw ached and his tongue felt hot and weary, and then Frodo was gone and Rosie's sounds were suddenly muffled, but this time when she went off, she gushed hot silky fluid around his fingers. Afterward, her hands fumbled frantically at his head, pushing him away.

Sam lifted his head, breathing hard; Rosie's body had grown flushed and her skin was mottled with exertion, her eyes huge and glassy. Her mouth looked red and wet when Frodo lifted his head and freed it. Her skin glowed in the lantern-light, sheened with sweat, her curls clinging to her breasts in dark ringlets, and she gasped for breath.

Frodo smiled at Sam, lifting his head from kissing Rosie, and then climbed to his knees and reached for Sam, kissing him hotly. He pulled back at last and licked Rosie off Sam's face, tidy little licks like a cat bathing a kitten, before stroking Sam's cheek tenderly with the backs of his knuckles.

It occurred to Sam then that his cock was so hard he hurt, his balls drawn up and aching; what with licking Rosie and listening for her cries, he'd hardly noticed. 

"What now?" he asked, when Frodo's mouth released him. His whole chest ached with sudden yearning, and he didn't know how to ask for what he wanted; he didn't even know what to ask for. "Please, sir," he managed, and hung fire.

"Not yet." Frodo drew back, and his mouth curved into a smile. "Now, you take her." 

Sam's eyes grew round; he looked down at Rosie, spread out sweating and spent, and his cock twitched hard against his belly. It knew what it wanted, and suddenly, he didn't care whether he had her or Frodo, just as long as he could quench the ache inside willing flesh.

"Go easy, Sam." Frodo curled his hand around Sam's cock, stroking lightly. "She's never had a lad this way before, and the first time always hurts a lass. It won't ease matters that you've a cock on you like Farmer Bunce's prize bull, but that can't be helped-- and soon, she won't want it any other way." His hand caressed Sam with something like reverence. "I certainly wouldn't." His eyes gleamed a little with mischief-- and love.

Sam blinked, flushing with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment, but worry fluttered in his breast, too.

"Shouldn't you," he waved his hand helplessly, expressing what he didn't quite feel able to say. "Go first, I mean, to make it easier?"

"She wanted to save this for you," Frodo said, and leaned in to kiss Sam's lips, very lightly. "And it's best if I don't risk putting a babe in her." He smiled, a little regretful, and reached out to clasp Rosie's hand, his thumb stroking her palm. "It's best if her intended is the one who risks that, don't you think?"

"But I," Sam swallowed hard, all a-dither again. "I'm not--" he faltered, looking at Rosie, whose eyes rested on him, wide and worried, and he realized that Frodo was right; if he were ever to marry a lass, it would be Rosie Cotton; there hadn't never been any question of that. But still.... "I thought you-- and you haven't yet, but we both have--"

"There's time for that yet." Frodo kissed him again, and Sam gave it all his attention-- Frodo's mouth was sweet and clever, not so soft as Rosie's. 

"Show me how," he asked shyly when Frodo drew away, and Frodo smiled. 

"You won't need that," he touched Sam's face with his palm. "You know what to do, I think. Just don't stop when it starts to hurt her; you won't spare her pain by drawing it out. Slow and steady, Sam, at first."

Sam trembled and looked down at Rosie; her eyes were soft and trusting, her face open and her thighs still parted. "Please, Sam," she said softly, and reached for him.

The wind stirred the leaves about the hobbits, and the lantern reflected off the leaves' silver bellies. Sam looked up automatically to check the weather, only to find the sky had grown dark, the moon and stars long lost behind gathering clouds.

"It won't hold off till morning," Frodo urged hims softly, and lightning flickered to punctuate his words, thunder following immediately after. "Have her, Sam." 

Trembling, Sam drew a breath and moved to nestle between Rosie's sturdy, pale thighs. She fit around his body like a glove, her breasts soft and yielding, as though they'd been made just to cushion him. Her arms rose and twined around his neck. 

"I've waited too long for this," she murmured, and caught his lip between her teeth, biting gently and letting go. When she pulled back, fear had pulled fine lines of strain around her eyes.

"You're still just a lass," he protested thickly when he could escape her soft bite. His cock felt like red-hot beaten iron, ready to enter the forge for heating.

"Don't dawdle, Samwise," she responded, her voice a little tart, and shifted her hips to cradle him. Sam found himself matching her, lining up, the instinct of his body sure and true. She felt wet and hot, with the promise of more as she yielded to him, and everything faded from his mind for a moment, except her eyes. She made a little worried murmur as he began to press, but he remembered Frodo's words, and felt Frodo's hand gentle and reassuring on his back. Frodo's other hand caught Rosie's, and she laced her fingers with his; Sam could feel their hands clasp against his side.

Sam drew a deep breath and pushed, slow and steady-- her body didn't seem to want to let him in; her eyes went round and her breath hissed between her teeth. Frodo's hand stayed solid on his back, calm and insistent, and so Sam didn't stop, not even when she cried out against the motion, her eyes filling with tears. He savaged his bottom lip with his upper teeth, pushing steadily, and two tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, running down her temple. 

Her body stiffened, and Frodo soothed her, gentle words running from his lips like the water running from her eyes. Sam steeled himself to push through the tightness, jerking forward involuntarily as something gave way, and Rosie yelped, sharp and distressed, but he was in, all the way in, his balls nestled tight against her, her body tight as a vise around him, and his cock nudged lightly up against something deep inside her. He just fit; there wasn't no more room.

Rosie's chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths, whining in her throat; her eyes squeezed shut tight and she whimpered once, high-pitched and desperate. Her knuckles showed white, clutched around Frodo's hand, but Frodo made no move to escape, soothing her. Sam felt Frodo's free hand slip between them, and his fingers touched the little bud at the center of her, the one Sam had just learned so patiently with his tongue. Slowly the tension in her body eased, the tight clutch of her growing a little less fierce around him. 

The woods were aflight about them, leaves hissing and rustling as the storm-winds broke. Branches creaked in counterpoint to the growing thunder; Sam hardly heard it. He could feel Rosie's pulse in his cock, squeezing and releasing him, a rapid, urgent flutter. 

Without thinking, he moved, and her brown eyes flew open, dark and startled, to meet Sam's. 

He tried it again, and her mouth opened, soft and startled; she moved a little in response, easing the lie of her hips, and suddenly everything was smoother. Sam's third stroke came out a bit more, and went in faster, and her hand left Frodo's, her arms curling about him.

"Sam!" she gasped, and he heard himself growl at the sound of it, his mouth covering hers, devouring the word off her lips, and then his hips were pumping steadily, and hers rose to meet them with growing urgency. The night came alight for him, every sensation and sound soaked in a molten glow of pleasure as he stroked harder and faster, hearing her little yelps and cries as he struck home inside her, finding just the right angle and depth so as not to make the cries flutter into pain. 

Frodo groaned softly beside them, low and breathy, but he went all but unheeded as he watched; Sam was lost in her, buried in her, and he barely noticed even her nails digging at his back, his body lost in the urgency of his need to have her. 

Her teeth sank at his shoulder, and he rode her harder. She met him sturdily, her need waxing, pushing up hard when he would hold back, and so he loosed his full strength, slamming home just to hear her wail and feel her thrash under him. Her nails drew lines of fire on his back, her cries deafened his ears.

When she screamed and her body clenched down on him, this time he appreciated the hard spasms of it as he didn't before, because they wrung his own climax out of him, and he shot into her with a hoarse shout, feeling the first drops of rain spatter onto his shoulders and back, unable to tell the white pulse behind his lids from the lightning, or the thunder of his heart from the thunder in the heavens.

He collapsed onto her, only then feeling the sting of her nails; he was in a lather of sweat and she was no better. He didn't know, for a long moment, where she ended and he began, or whether the drops on his back, cold in the wind, were blood or tears. 

"Now," Frodo said, his voice hot and a little impatient in Sam's ear as he blinked and tried to recover himself, still half-lost to the clinging warmth of Rosie's body and the rumble of the storm. "Now, you're mine."

Sam opened half an eye, wearily tipping his head back to see Frodo kneeling beside them, his body alternately silvered by lightning and gilded by the lantern. His dark hair curled like the storm-clouds that ebbed and flowed behind his head; his expression was fierce and possessive, and Sam felt his eyes widen with a giddy, eager awe that approached terror.

"Yes," he said, breathless, not caring what terms his agreement would entail, and he meant it with his whole heart. Just that quick, he all but forgot Rosie, lost in Mr. Frodo's eyes.

Frodo turned him over and put him on his back, hands infinitely gentle, but his eyes blazed like the lightning that crackled behind his shoulders. Sam went obediently, his muscles gone to water with pleasure and exertion, but his blood sang nonetheless at the feel of Frodo's hands on him. His back stung, the marks of Rosie's nails chafing against the rough cotton blanket, but then Frodo's mouth descended upon him like the storm.

Sam arched and cried out under his master just as Rosie cried out beneath him; Frodo's mouth was all fierce teeth and lashing tongue, and he marked Sam with love bites-- throat and breast and belly, his sharp teeth worrying Sam's nipples until Sam wailed and thrashed, unsure whether he was struggling for more or because he wanted to escape. 

Sam heard Rosie gasp, glimpsed her wide eyes and felt them on him, on them; Frodo merely ignored her, claiming Sam, exploring every inch of him with deliberate, thorough care.

Frodo's hot, demanding mouth covered Sam's cock, working every trace of Rosie off him, demanding that he rise again, and in this as in all things, Samwise obeyed his master. And then Frodo rose and his hands pressed against Sam, turning him to put him on his belly.

Joy and fear and exultation flared through Sam, and he went, submitting himself to his master, his heart pounding and his breath coming thick and heavy in his lungs as he understood what was coming. His mind yammered with terror and desire, both at once, and he quivered, waiting.

Frodo's hands parted him, gentle but firm, and his wicked mouth worked its way down until his tongue found an impossible part of Sam. The fear evaporated abruptly, and Sam heard himself weeping Frodo's name against the blanket in a frenzy of shock and pleasure. 

Rosie moaned. From the corner of his eye, Sam could see her fingers buried in the curls between her thighs, her legs flexing as she writhed, pushing herself against them; Frodo growled against Sam and turned his head aside, sinking his teeth in the tender flesh of Sam's thigh just where his arse joined his leg, as though he sensed the infidelity of Sam's eyes. 

Then his tongue returned, and Sam felt it spear him, pushing deep; he choked his shock against the blankets, struggling for breath; so stunned he was unable to cry out, all the breath forced out of his lungs.

He struggled to breathe; he smelled Rosie and the wet earth and the sharp ozone of the storm and the coarse lye soap trapped in the fiber of the blankets; he couldn't pull air back into his lungs fast enough. Frodo's tongue possessed him, and his knees gave out, but Frodo held him up, refusing to let them buckle. 

"Give me the oil." The syllables sounded all but foreign to Sam; language had lost meaning for him for a time, and he only knew the sudden absence of Frodo's tongue, and he mewled, unable to speak, but Rosie moved rapidly, and her hair brushed his back as she leaned over to the basket, then reached for Frodo with gleaming hands, the slick sound of her palms sliding on his flesh and Frodo's little intake of breath suddenly lost in a crack of thunder. Rain spiked in again, sharp needles that wakened the rest of Sam's skin.

And then something blunt and hot pressed at Sam, and he knew it was Frodo. "Sam?" Frodo's voice was hoarse and thick with longing, straining for control.

Sam trembled, knowing what was desired of him, and the answer husked through his dry lips. "Yes." He let his head drop and locked his elbows, and the lungful of air that he drew to brace himself was driven back out of him again as Frodo sank in. 

Frodo pushed in and in and in, slow but firm, and it hurt, and Sam knew how Rosie must have felt only moments ago; he understood fully the drugged width of her eyes, the shock and the wonder and the fear he had glimpsed in her. He couldn't breathe; he couldn't speak. He let himself be pierced and owned, and his heart cracked with desperate love as Frodo's body mastered his; he sank to his elbows, trembling and unable to support himself, and Frodo purred, a triumphant little sound of ownership and pleasure. 

Yours. Sam couldn't speak, the word echoing like thunder in his brain. 

Frodo hesitated for a long moment, then moved, pulling back, and Sam felt it from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. He whimpered, torn between needing more of his master and protesting against the pain, but still given over to him. Frodo pressed deep again, burying himself inside Sam, and Sam rocked forward at the force of it, elbows burning on the rough cotton, cock swinging free.

Impossibly vulnerable and exposed, he felt; Rosie's eyes burned as hot on his skin as Frodo's cock burned inside him. 

"Oh, Sam," Rosie breathed, and her fingers dipped back inside herself again, moving in a hitching pattern against her flesh; Sam saw her for a split second before Frodo retreated and pushed again, and he ducked his head behind the crook of his elbow, unable to watch himself be watched. 

It felt as good as it hurt, this time; the pleasure he remembered dimly from Rosie's finger inside his body woke, flaring anew inside him; Sam's cock flushed with heat. Frodo's fingers sank at his waist to hold him, branding him with ten little bruises of fire. Sam moaned against his arm, and he could not help himself; when Frodo pushed next, Sam met his thrust, rocking back greedily for it. 

The next time Frodo's hips snapped forward hard to meet Sam's push, and when they met in the middle, Sam yelped; it was too much and not enough, and the rain began lashing down, icy needles pierced him, fair sizzling off his back. He struggled up onto his palms again, and shoved back against Frodo, nearly toppling them both. He was possessed by want; no matter how much his master drove into him, it wasn't enough. 

It never quite stopped hurting, but the pain mingled with the pleasure, and the two became one; the pain and the lust and the pleasure built inseparably, and Sam's abused cock sang notes of piercing, craving ache through the buffeting of Frodo riding him. Sam choked on rainwater, and his shouts and cries of love went unheard through the thunder; water dropped off his nose and beaded in his lashes. Rivulets streamed off his chin and his cock, and Frodo lay slippery against his back, burning like a brand of fire thrust into him. 

Rosie's hair straggled across her breasts in sinuous, wet trails; her mouth formed a wide O and her fingers slid furiously against herself, with rapid, near-punishing force. Sam needed her too as soon as he saw her; he craved to pound her open and expose her, tear open her isolation and own her again, just the way that Frodo owned him.

Frodo's fingers found his head and tightened to a fist in his hair, pulling his head back and stretching his neck painfully. The motion tore Sam's his gaze from Rosie, reclaiming him and reining him in. Sam struggled just to feel his master's fingers tighten again, and when they did, his cock surged, and he could feel his balls coil and tighten, seizing and pulsing, though he had no seed left to spend. There were only the wild tremors that coursed through him, racking him, wringing him out, and sending him faltering to his face on the blanket again, sobbing and choking and feeling Frodo slam deep once more and then tense and shudder against him, wracked and writhing for an eternal moment, before he fell across Sam's body.

For a long moment, all was still but the wind and the cold rain battering the three of them.

Rosie was first to move; she wobbled to her feet and gathered the lantern and the basket, putting the flask of oil away. Sam heard her stir, felt the rain begin to chill his body, and understood they couldn't stay; he forced himself to move next, easing himself out from under his master, feeling with wonder the ache and burn in his muscles and his flesh.

"Mr. Frodo, we'd best be getting indoors before we catch our death," he coaxed, and Frodo came to him, standing and nestling into his arms, wet and sleek like an eel.

They left the ruined blankets behind.

The shortcut path down from the Hill had turned into a waterfall of pebbles and rainwater, so they cut across and took the Road, then followed it up to Bag End. Frodo had recovered his self-possession by the time they reached the doorstep, and he found his key and let them in.

In a twinkling Sam lit the fire under the copper and started bath-water heating; he dawdled over it, feeling the warm glow of aches and pains in his body, with fear and doubt rising to weight his breast-- would he have to give one of them up to keep the other? But then he went out, and entering the hall he saw Frodo draw Rosie into his arms and kiss her forehead, and something tight and terrified loosened in his heart.

He went to them and put his arms around them both, and he felt the same tension ease in Frodo, who lifted his head to meet Sam's eyes and smiled a little sheepishly. 

"Let's get a wash and go off to bed together, if I may make so bold," he said, stroking his hand over Rosie's wet, tangled curls to comfort her.

"Of course you may," Frodo said, and they went in to the bathing room together.


	4. Frodo/Sam, Sam/Rosie (UNFINISHED)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frodo/Sam, Sam/Rosie (UNFINISHED!)

"You're a fool, Sam Gamgee, and I've said so afore now. You haven't the brass or the wit to catch him either one, but if you can't have him you'll have naught at all, won't you? Stubborn and hard-headed, that's what you are, and you've no more idea where he's spent half the afternoon hiding away than you do of how to catch him, for all your bold talk. But I do." She sat down in Frodo's vacated place, lowering her voice. "Come away with me, Sam, and I'll tell you." 

"And what would you be wanting me to come away with you for?" he asked warily, eyes narrowing at her. She just looked at him, raising a brow, and Sam flushed. "Now, Rosie, that ain't proper and you know it." 

"You'll not find a better offer." She stared him straight in the eye. "You'd best take it, or I'll be offering the same to Erling Noakes before this bench grows cold, Sam Gamgee!" 

"Do that and I'll be telling your mother and your da besides!" Sam sputtered back in a hiss, indignant and more than a bit flustered by the hot rush of jealousy in his breast. "Now see here, Rosie Cotton, you ain't just bargaining for cabbages at the farthing fair!" 

Her lip trembled and her eyes filled in spite of her steady gaze; Sam rubbed his palm over his face in despair. 

"O very well, but no more'n what we did this morning. You're too young to carry a babe," he muttered, defeated. "And you must promise me you won't run the chase tomorrow." 

She nodded sharply, satisfied. "Fair enough. That's settled, then. It ain't long till nightfall, Sam. Meet me by the baking ovens as soon as it's good and dark." She got up and flounced away; Sam groaned to himself and put down his spoon, for he couldn't stomach any more of the stew. At this rate, he'd have to marry Rosie for sure, whether he caught Frodo or no! 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Full dark came much too fast to suit Sam, but a bargain was a bargain, and he couldn't harden his heart against the memory of those tears in Rosie's eyes-- or her promise not to run tomorrow, neither, so he showed up on the windward side of the baking ovens, as promised. A bit of breeze had sprung up as the Sun went down, washing the smoke back through the hedge and off across the land, making this a more pleasant area for almost all, but now that it was cooling down, the bakers had redoubled their efforts, readying for the morning. 

Rosie soon emerged from the crowd, looking pleased with herself, and Sam squirmed as she took his hand and tugged him away. He was half-fearful and half-aroused, and kept looking around, quite self-conscious and sure that all who passed knew what they were doing. But none seemed to care as Rosie dragged him around the edge of a booth, then slipped behind the canvas door flap which hung suspended to let hobbits pass in and out. 

Immediately they were alone, though completely surrounded by chattering, busy hobbits-- the tents had been put next to one another, but not touching. A narrow strip of unused grass lay between. Lanterns inside each tent and booth sent shadows looming and reeling on the canvas, and Sam abruptly understood the nature of the hiding places he'd foolishly been ignorant of throughout the long afternoon. 

Rosie turned to him, smiling, and he swallowed, wishing he could bolt away, but she was stepping near, running her hands along his chest and up behind his neck, lifting her mouth, and there wasn't anything for it but to kiss her. 

She was a pleasant enough armful, breasts soft against Sam's chest, mouth hot and bold, her tongue darting in to touch Sam's. He kissed her, helpless, hands hesitantly coming to rest on her back. 

"That's better now, Sam," she purred, and he had to admit-- it was. He'd been kissing lasses all day, and was starting to get a bit of experience at it. It weren't the sort of thing a lad minded, not even if he did have his sights set on catching the Master of the Hill. 

Rosie tugged Sam down to the grass, and before he knew it he was stretched out along her side, kissing her over and over. Her mouth opened hot and yielding to him, a sultry song tempting him to forget his plans and just stay here instead. She'd put her hand inside his shirt, and her skin was warm, and she ebbed and surged against him eagerly in rhythm with her kisses. His body remembered the way it had begun the morning, seemingly, straining for her so urgent she couldn't but notice. And notice she did, pushing him over on his back and climbing atop him, her heat against his breeches through her soft cotton drawers. 

Sam pushed up against her before he could think not to, and she smiled, her look soft and heated, then reached up and tugged the ends of the bow at her bodice-- and her generous breasts, confined tightly inside, made the lace hiss through its eyes as they spilled forth, escaping their prison. He couldn't think whether her nipples were more pink than brown, but there they were, only inches from his eyes. 

She leaned forward, wriggling urgently on him, and Sam mouthed like a babe, reveling in soft hot skin that yielded sweetly to his callused brown fingers and tasted like salt against his tongue. She gasped as he suckled, her arms curving behind his head and holding him against her. 

"This ain't what we agreed on," he managed to gasp, but couldn't stop his hips pushing against her. He was so hard he couldn't think how to save himself. 

"It ain't," she agreed readily, and stood up, moving her soft breasts out of range of both his mouth and hands, which didn't think too much of him for protesting-- but then forgave him as she hastily pulled up her skirts and stepped out of her drawers, leaving them on the grass. "Those breeches must be right uncomfortable, Sam." Letting her skirts drop, she knelt and started in working his buttons. Sam struggled feebly, but she was right, and his heart weren't in it-- it weren't listening to his mind, nohow, but to parts southwards. 

"Let me see..." she batted his hands away, voice a purr. "Oh, my, Sam, now this is something like." 

He let his head fall back in defeat as her fingers closed around him, drawing him forth. "Rosie Cotton, you're no lady." He licked his lips, feeling sweat break out on him where there weren't none just a moment ago. 

"That don't trouble me in the least," she said tartly, and didn't let go of him, neither. "For you're no gentleman, shaming me as you have, Samwise Gamgee!" Her hand moved, and that robbed both the words off his tongue and the breath from his lungs that he would have used to speed them on their way. "Any other lad would've had me on my back in the haystack before I knew what he was about, but not you, oh no." She stroked him harder, her eyes fair snapping with annoyance. "I've got to do every little thing for you, and if that don't mean we're fated to be husband and wife one day, I don't know what does." Somehow she managed to muster quite a lot of dignity even with her breasts hanging free of her frock and her hand wrapped around his hard shaft, moving with vigorous purpose. 

Sam was hard as he could be now, aching something fierce, so when she dropped him he gave a little bleat in spite of himself, levering up on his elbows. "What are you stopping for?" 

"To teach you sense," she shook her head, and the rest of her shook too, so much he couldn't think. "Samwise, you'll never be mistress of Bag End and you know it. Leastways, you ought to. When you figure that out, I'll be waiting for you-- or not, if you wait too late." She propped herself up, leaning against one of the tent poles, which was set firmly into a hold in the turf, and parted her knees, drawing up her skirt. "You said you'd touch me like you did this morning, so be about it." 

Sam swallowed hard, eyes fixed on her, no more able to look away than he was to argue. He reached slowly, one hand settling on the pale inside of her thigh, brown against her smooth skin. He wanted her hands on him again so badly he shook. The area between her thighs was lost in shadow, but he remembered its slick softness, and his hand inched towards it, driven by the hunger of his aching. 

"Do for me, that's it, and I'll take you in my mouth to finish you off," she offered, a husky purr. 

"I don't know where you learned such things." Sam found he couldn't lift his treacherous hand, the fingers of which had found her curls. 

"That's my business," she told him primly. "Your business is to be glad you've got a girl who would do such for you; many of them won't, as you ought to know if you didn't spend all your nights mooning after Himself up on the Hill!" 

She was wet and near to burned him with her heat, her flesh welcoming his fingertips, parting easily. He touched, pressing experimentally, and found his two first fingers could sink in to her most all the way to the last knuckle. His very ears burned at the low moan she made and the sensation of her body clutching tightly around his fingers. His whole skin vibrated, the part of him she'd exposed to the air wanting desperately to be covered again-- covered by her flesh and buried in it as his hand was now. 

"Your thumb, Sam." Her voice quavered, and her hands showed him the way, settling it over a tight hot little bud at the center of her, soft as a rose-petal. He pressed and she moaned low in her throat and writhed, so he obliged her, watching her hands as she pinched her nipples and arched her body, moving herself around his fingers. Her mouth fell open, lips wet, and she made soft little cries as he learned the skill of what he was doing, watching her with growing fascination. Her thighs strained, muscles tense and taut as she lifted her body against his hand, her flat belly quivering. 

It might not be such a bad thing to be married to her after all; it would mean he could bury himself in her without fear or regret and watch her face right under his, her eyes glazed and her lips wet and trembling... he could suckle at her salty-sweet nipples every night, have her mouth on him like she promised, and none could say him no.... She was lovely like this, hair tumbled and skin gleaming with sweat. She was right; she wouldn't be any shrinking lily in his bed. Not in the least. He could just see her, mounted on him and riding hard, her breasts bouncing with the force of his thrusts.... 

Sam moaned aloud at the thought of it, and her eyes caught his for a moment, dancing with triumph at his expression, and she reached to take him in hand, curling her little fist around him tight and stroking him hard in just the same rhythm he was giving her. Her whole body was quivering now, slick with sweat and musky with heat, and her hand clutched him erratically as she shuddered. Her eyes flew open wide, and she let out a low keening wail, loud enough he was certain someone in the tents had to have heard them; her hand stilled and her body clenched around him. She shook, limbs convulsing, her head thrashing from side to side with such force it near terrified Sam before she subsided at last, panting. 

She lay there for a moment, struggling to catch her breath, and Sam just stared at her, startled and uncertain, never having seen such a thing before. At last she moved, sultry like her bones had all turned to water, and looked up at him smiling, then rolled to her side and put her mouth on him, her hair tumbling over his lap, a few sweaty curls clinging to her neck and breasts. 

Sam bit his arm so as not to scream; the shock of her warm wet mouth instantly did away with the fear that had made his shaft sag. It leaped to attention, nudging at the back of her throat. She merely shifted so that it sank in till his balls touched her chin, and her cheeks hollowed, producing a sensation that set his spine afire like a bolt of lightning had crashed down atop his head. The lightning-fire crackled down his spine and curled around his balls and he simply exploded, erupting right in her mouth with a strangled shout. 

When he came to his senses, he was holding her right where she was with both fists knotted in her hair, and she was licking her lips, looking up at him through her lashes with a wicked smile of triumph. "There's plenty more where that came from, Sam." She bent her head and licked along his spent shaft, which still quivered with aftershock and twitched with almost painful, weary eagerness at the reminder. She breathed on it, a cool tickle. "Have your fun with Mr. Frodo tomorrow, for I daresay you can find him now that I've let you in on his secret, but when the festival's over and you're labouring again in that big garden and he's got his pretty nose buried in his books without a thought for you, you'll know where to find me." 

She got up, tucking her breasts back into her bodice, doing up the laces with her tongue caught between her teeth. Last of all she stepped into her drawers and pulled them up, arranging her skirts primly over all. She ran her fingers through her hair, tidying it as much as she could, and then stepped back through the flap and in to the party, leaving Sam to lie there stunned, the grass prickly behind his back and his nether parts exposed for all the stars above to see. 

Sam eventually stirred, tending to himself with shaky fingers. The party went on, unabated, and the wheeling of the stars reminded him that he had only limited time left before middle-night. When he finally judged he didn't look like he'd just been knocked over by a waggon and team, he sneaked out and went in search of water, finding a bucket and washing the scent of Rosie off his hands. 

This time as he passed through the rows of tents and small pavilions, he knew what to look for, and saw several likely spots where the walls didn't quite come together proper. The one he and Rosie had used looked to be the largest of them-- most were considerably smaller, the tents' owners making better use of the field's limited space. Knowing Mr. Frodo, he'd use one as folks were hardly like to find. 

Even as the thought struck him, Mr. Frodo flashed before him, running hard with Erling Noakes in hot pursuit. Even as Sam drew breath to shout, Mr. Frodo tumbled an empty table into Noakes's path and darted around a corner. Sam didn't hesitate to follow, ducking between a pavilion and a booth into the next row, emerging just as Fal and Rowly rounded two separate corners nearby, apparently having been part of a planned ambush. Sure enough, Mr. Frodo weren't nowhere to be seen. Sam stepped back in to the shadows to listen. 

"He's a slippery one. Didn't Erling say he'd run him through here?" Fal shook his head in disgust. 

"That he did. And here he is now." Rowly cuffed Erling's shoulder. "Where have you been, having second breakfast?" 

"He pushed a table in front of me," Erling scowled. "Didn't you catch him as he run through?" 

"He never run past me." Rowly shook his head, and Fal echoed him. 

"Nor me, neither." 

"Well, he didn't just vanish into thin air!" Erling flung out his hands as if to demonstrate. 

"I'll warrant he did," Rowly spat on to the green. "Just now and half a dozen more times today when we've had him dead to rights. I'm done with it, lads. It ain't natural!" 

Sam smiled a little to himself. At least he weren't the only fool here, and that was saying summat. He fidgeted, wanting them to be gone so he could check the tents. When they finally stalked off, he slipped out and started shifting flaps, peering into every crevice he could find-- but it weren't no use; they were all as empty as could be. 

"Looking for someone?" Mr. Frodo's voice whispered at his ear, and Sam whirled to find his master standing just outside arm's reach, bouncing on his heels. 

"Aye." Sam took a step, rounding himself to face Mr. Frodo square, slow and careful. "There's a hare I've a mind to catch." 

"Did you have a good talk with Rosie?" Frodo's smirk turned positively wicked, and Sam blushed hot. 

"Not as good a one as I'll be having with you, come tomorrow," he promised with deliberate cheek, taking a single step forward. Frodo stepped back, pacing him carefully, a little smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. Sam took another step, judging his chances; there was a bit of rope not five ells behind Mr. Frodo, tied to a stake and holding up the front awning of a tent. If he could keep Mr. Frodo's attention diverted, he might just back him over it and then take the chance to spring. "I see the Noakes boys haven't caught you yet. You've got them all of a dither, if I may say." He took another step, but Frodo glided back, light as a dancer, keeping the distance between them. 

"Three against one isn't fair," Frodo laughed softly, and took another step back. He stepped over the rope just as light as you please, never even looking for it, and Sam grinned, wry. 

"One against one ain't hardly fair neither, not when one of the two is Mr. Frodo Baggins." 

Frodo inclined his head in gracious acknowledgment, eyes sparkling. "You've spent the whole day chasing everyone but me, Sam Gamgee. Doesn't your Gaffer say what's worth having is worth working for?" With that, he turned on his heel and fled. 

Sam threw dignity to the winds and leaped after, knowing that in a regular race Mr. Frodo would leave him winded at the post, but this was no regular race, what with the people getting in the way and all, and Mr. Frodo was at a disadvantage, having to break the path. He flung himself about the corner, spying his master's heels vanishing, and charged through the eddy of reveling hobbits in Mr. Frodo's wake down the main walk, ignoring the laughter and pointing fingers that followed. 

Mr. Frodo was caught in a swirl of people at the corner; half a dozen hobbits, Sam's Gaffer included, were carrying empty ale casks away to be loaded on to a waggon drawn up next to the dancing green; Mr. Frodo lost time by politely refusing to jostle them, and Sam all but caught him up, hastily touching his cap to his old dad as he raced past. 

"Samwise, mind your manners, you young ruffian!" Gaffer sputtered, whirling to watch the chase with his barrel still hoisted on his shoulder. Sam didn't have leisure to pay him no mind, pounding after Mr. Frodo as hard as he could go-- every now and again he could almost catch his master's coattail, if he tried, but he couldn't quite, and they wound back and forth through the whole length and breadth of the fair-- past Tom's laughing face and Rosie's flat-eyed stare, past Ted Sandyman's guffaws and his sisters' tittering. 

Sam was soon puffing, red in the face, and had a stitch in his side, but he kept running for all he was worth. Mr. Frodo was too close to give up on, and there were half a dozen other hounds who'd jumped in to follow in Sam's wake, ready to take up the chase if he abandoned it. 

But before Sam could blink, it was over: Mr. Frodo cut to the left when he should have gone right, and 'round the corner waited Erling and Rowly and Fal, all ranged out ready to pounce upon him, and Sam just behind, cutting off all hope of escape. The hounds all but bayed their excitement, and Sam pulled up sharp so as not to plow into his master, who had stopped, dithering between his choices. The hounds spread out, forming themselves into a ring around him, slowly drawing it tight. 

Mr. Frodo looked thoughtfully about the circle, a smile deepening on his face. He was plainly caught; all that remained was to see who had the cheek to lay hands on him first. 

Before Sam could muster up the resolve to put himself forward, Mr. Frodo's eyes fell to rest on him, sparkling with mirth, and he leaped, his weight striking Sam full in the chest and catching him unprepared. Sam flung up his hands out of instinct and found them full of lithe, squirming hobbit; Mr. Frodo's weight near toppled him, but he staggered and stood firm, and Mr. Frodo wrapped his arms and legs tight around Sam and hung on. 

"Hello," he said right into Sam's startled face, then his mouth descended on Sam's. 

Every trace of self-consciousness and indecision vanished from Sam's mind at once with the shock of it. Mr. Frodo's tongue, hot and bold, swept right into his mouth, ravishing him with a surge of lust that left him stiff inside his breeches in spite of Rosie's attentions. He made a low sound, half whimper and half-growl, and hitched Frodo up tight against him, kissing him back clumsily, but with growing determination, ignoring his aching arms. He spread his legs and bent back, taking more of Frodo's weight with his strong thighs, eyes squeezed shut tight as he lost himself in bliss and fire. 

His master's fierce, sweet mouth wandered, biting kisses across Sam's jaw and down his throat; Sam hissed and kneaded, hands filled with Frodo's narrow bottom. Then Frodo was chuckling, legs loosening, sliding down from their hold on Sam's waist. Sam released him with reluctance, easing him onto his feet. Mr. Frodo dropped a quick kiss onto Sam's nose and fumbled at his collar for a ribbon. 

Sam stood stunned, struggling to think of something to say and unable to do aught more than dither. Mr. Frodo unfastened the bit of ribbon, giving Sam a sly smile. Placing it in Sam's hand, he darted away-- past Tom Cotton, who stood aside to let him go. 

He shook his head at Sam, chiding him for waiting late. "It's almost middle-night," he chivvied the hares, rousing them from staring at Sam in a daze. "You'd best get back to the green." 

 

Dazed, Sam stood still in spite of the warning, watching after his master as he departed, but without really seeing. Frodo's kiss still tingled on his lips, and he rubbed the bit of satiny ribbon-- harsh in comparison to Mr. Frodo's skin-- between his fingertips.

Sam couldn't fathom what had just happened, try as he might. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, his mind still insisted Mr. Frodo couldn't possibly want him. It must be a jest, or a game... perhaps he would catch Mr. Frodo in the chase, only for his master to laugh at him, or to turn awkward, not having expected to be caught by Samwise Gamgee, or worse, to turn haughty, and tell Sam to be off.

He bit his lip, staring down at the little bit of ribbon.

"Well, ye got what ye wanted. Have ye come to your senses, then?" His Gaffer's voice penetrated his reverie. "Or are ye too flustered and bebothered to now when it's time to stop?" The Gaffer stumped over, his cane digging little divots in the green.

Sam lifted his eyes to the Gaffer's, and saw sympathy there in spite of the gruff tone. "I don't know as it's time to stop, but I don't know as it isn't," he answered, truthful enough to make his cheeks burn.

"Ye should be chasin' the Cotton lass. But ye've put your foot in that, right enough. Now she's chasin' the master as she shouldn't be, and her feelings are like to be hurt no matter which way the running goes." The Gaffer shook his head. "Well, 'twon't be the first time, and that's a fact. Better feelings be hurt than ye put a babe in the belly of a lass ye don't love."

Sam's cheeks flamed at the frank advice, and he closed the ribbon inside his fist. "It ain't that I'm not fond of Rosie." For he was, truth be told. He just... he wasn't ready for that sort of thing, and mightn't ever be, depending.

"Ye've just spent a lifetime tied in knots over that Mr. Frodo. Don't think I'm not noticin', and that he ain't noticin' neither." The Gaffer shook his head, wry, and pulled out his pipe. "I reckon he means to offer up a chance for ye to get a pleasant tumble and work this out of your system, Sam-lad, so mind ye don't go shamin' yourself after."

Shame flushed through Sam at his old dad's words anyhow, and a spark of anger kindled along with it. "Mr. Frodo ain't that sort."

"Ain't he?" Gaffer lowered his voice. "Well, mayhap ye know better than your old dad, but mayhap all your cheek's for naught, Samwise. Ye'll be seeing soon enough who's won ribbons from him this day, and it ain't just Rosie Cotton and Sam Gamgee." He tamped rough-cut leaf into the bowl of his pipe, then cast about for a straw or twig to light at a nearby torch.

Sam's chin firmed, stubborn; it seemed the Gaffer's statement of his own doubt had touched some buried thing in him and fired his courage. "Well, Dad, I suppose I knew that all along. And don't go worryin'. I'm not about to shame you none, nor Mr. Frodo neither. If I catch him it'll have to be done fair and square, I'll warrant. And if he don't want no more of it then or after, I'll abide by his decision. But if he does, then you'll have to be abiding by mine to give it to him, and that's flat."

The Gaffer's eyes went round; he stared at Sam for a moment over the filled bowl of his unlit pipe before they narrowed and then dropped to examine his pipe, frowning at it and turning it as though it was a new one he was deciding whether or not to buy.

"Don't hold your breath hoping for that, lad. Remember your place." The Gaffer pointed to Sam sternly with the stem, then stuck it between his teeth unlit.

"Aye; that's just what I'll do, and it's under the Party Tree right now, seemingly." Heart pounding and blood racing in his veins uncomfortably fast from the sheer cheek of offering such sauce to his old Dad, Sam turned resolutely and made his way towards the green.

He was hindered in reaching his goal by a steady stream of hobbits headed the other way. Most were mothers with babes in arms and children in tow. Some of the lads and lasses were old enough to know why they were being taken away to bed, and to act sullen about it.

Sullen or no, they went, as Sam himself had done in past years. A few among them, he knew, only gave the appearance of going. They'd be back after fooling their mothers into believing they'd gone to bed-- back, and hiding in the nearby hedgerows and haystacks hoping to have a look at what happened next. Most of them would be too late, Sam judged likely, though they had an outside chance of witnessing more in the morning.

The hares stood assembled in a loose, chattering knot on the northernmost end of the green, towards Overhill, and the hounds southward towards Hobbiton. In spite of himself, he picked Rosie out of the crowd as he approached the hounds. She looked like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, as cool and calm as spring morning. Sam shook his head and tried not to fluster. He looked away from Rosie and nearly jumped out of his skin; May Belle Stonheaver stood less than a pace from him, so quiet he'd never heard her coming.

"I hear Mr. Frodo led you a merry chase, Samwise," she purred. Sam flushed, keenly aware of eyes coming to rest on them. "But if you'd rather have a nice armful of buxom lass than a bony lad," her voice fell, sultry with invitation, "You're a fine sturdy lad, Sam, and I reckon you'll do. I want you to meet me up where the mill-race starts. Be there just when Borgil shines overhead, and I'll show you a proper good time."

Sam blinked at her, so shocked he could do naught but stammer. "M-may Belle!"

"Mind you don't leave me waiting, Sam." With a sultry flip of her skirts, May Belle returned to the hares and Sam scampered to join the relative safety of the milling hounds. He resisted the temptation to touch his cheeks, which felt flame-hot, what with the curious and amused looks her antics had drawn to him-- including one from Rosie, so sharp it nearly prickled.

Sam gulped and tried to find a safe place to rest his gaze. A walled pavilion had been set up, its sides fluttering weakly in the dew-heavy night breeze. In spite of his confusion, Sam's heart picked up a beat at the sight of it, and his throat felt tight and his tongue too thick; he knew what it was for. Daddy Sandheaver stood before it, looking as spry and alert as he had in the early morn, no doubt the better for an afternoon nap.

"Let's be about it then!" he chivvied the lad at his side, giving him a clout on the shoulder when he hovered, too obviously solicitous. "Let go, you young lout! I ain't as old as all that. You hares and hounds, now." He raised his voice, a little thin and reedy, but a hush fell so that he could be heard. "The ribbons are won, and there's no more trading to be done. Hounds, you can chase any hare you've a mind to-- if you claimed a token! If you didn't, the hare's off limits, and never mind if she's your sweetheart. Or he," he coughed, frowning a little. "Here, lad, step up. The rest of you, in a line. No shoving, mind!"

Sam fell into the line about halfway down its length, gathering his tokens in his sweaty hand. Rose stood half a dozen paces behind him, her hand closed around her prizes. Sam avoided her eyes Daddy Twofoot read the names aloud off the first lad's ribbons as the line straggled forward-- proud of knowing his letters, it was plain.

"Esmerelda Bolger. Pansy Burrowes. Araminta Weaver..." as each name rang out, a lass answered "aye," confirming the gift of the token. Their voices varied from shy and trembling to brass-bold.

"Lily Gravel. Pansy Meadowes. Frodo Baggins."

Sam started, eyes snapping up; Frodo's calm "aye" confirmed the token. The lad standing at the head of the line was Marco Cotton, one of Sam's own cousins. He was a pleasant roundfaced fellow with a shock of thick brown hair that flamed with red under the Sun and a thick scatter of freckles across his nose, and Sam had always thought him too shy to speak to a stranger, even now that he was nearly grown.

"Down with them hackles, Sam Gamgee," a lad murmured in his ear. "Or you'll fright the freckles off Marco's face, and that's a fact!"

Sam made himself look away, but he felt the tension settle in is shoulders, refusing to be so easily dismissed. It might be the first, but likely it weren't the last.

His guess was right; by the time he'd reached the front of the line, Mr. Frodo's name had been called another three times, and each time met by his calm acknowledgement of a token granted. Two of his tokens were held by girls as had joined the hounds, and they stood together smiling smugly at Frodo, visions of Bag End dancing in their eyes so plain they might as well have had it writ on their foreheads.

Sam stepped up and handed over his modest collection, ears going red as Daddy Sandheaver read the names. "Frodo Baggins. Ivy Hayfield. May Belle Stoneheaver." Sam could fair feel Rosie's eyes boring into his nape, sharp as gimlets, but all he could hear was Frodo's voice, calm and warm, acknowledging Sam's token with the same unstudied grace as he might have used to thank Sam for a cup of tea.

After that, it seemed the rest of the line took no time at all, though he did pay a bit of mind to Rosie's turn at its head, and found she'd not only caught Frodo, but two lasses as well. She gave Sam a satisfied smirk and tossed her curls before joining the waiting hounds who milled about under the Tree, waiting for the next part of the chase to begin.

Finally the accounting was done, with only a few dissenting tokens to be reclaimed from their owners, and Daddy Sandheaver looked about, clearing his throat and waiting for a lull. "This bit o' the chase we'll do proper, like in days gone, though ye don't need me to tell it to ye, I'll warrant!" He chuckled, gleeful, and the hares murmured and blushed. Mr. Frodo just stood with his hands in his pockets, a half-smile on his face, perfectly composed. He'd given away seven tokens, all told, or else Sam missed his count. Worse, lads held no less than four of them.

"In the tent with ye, and don't ye come out till ye strip down as bare as ye were born!" Daddy Sandheaver shooed at the hares, flapping his palms, and they vanished behind the flap, nervous tittering muffled by the heavy canvas.

Mr. Frodo went inside the tent with them, for all he was a lad, and Sam heard more than a few chuckles at the sight. "Now there's a lucky lad, and mayhap this was what he's been after all day," Hob Brockhouse murmured at Sam's ear. Sam ignored him, sidling towards the tent where the hounds had begun to mass, jockeying for position.

"Stand back there, back now!" Daddy Sandheaver reached for his cane and swung it about, clouting a few of the over-eager hounds until they fell back behind a line of his choosing. "Don't be falling on them as soon as they leave the tent! That's not how it's done. Chase them fair, or not at all!"

A gust of soft, cool breeze caught the flap of the tent and lifted it partway, causing a fluttering shriek from inside and a rumble of appreciation from without; Sam's cheeks burned at the glimpse of bare thigh and rounded breast he'd caught before it fell, and thought suddenly of Rosie, her sweet slick flesh burning hot against his hand. His body tightened. It wouldn't be easy to run in such a state-- and mayhap, the hares were counting on it.

"Make yourselves ready!" Daddy Sandheaver thumped the canvas with his stick. "Don't be all night about it."

After a further few minutes, the clamor in the tent stilled; it seemed everyone in the field stopped breathing to wait, eyes resting on the tent. "Well, go ahead," a girl's voice called, and Daddy Sandheaver reached and pulled back the flap. Hands flew to help him, and soon both flaps of the pavilion tent were hooked to poles at either side of its mouth, revealing the hares within: every one without so much as a stitch on. Everywhere he looked, acres of pale skin-- nipples and navels and soft curly triangles. And....

Sam's throat closed. Ivory pale, Mr. Frodo stood calm, perhaps with just the faintest hue of a pink flush on his cheeks. His narrow body was sleek and slim, not padded with luscious curves like the girls, but below his hipbones, there lay--

"Go!" Daddy Sandheaver yelped, swinging his arms, and the tent erupted in a seething mass of arms and legs as the hares bolted forth, streaming past the waiting hounds into the night. Sam almost fell, buffeted on every side by the equally urgent press of the hounds bolting after them; blinking, he realized he would be left, so he put down his head and ran.

(unfinished, sorry!)


End file.
